


But World Enough, And Time

by ratherastory



Category: Hawaii Five-0 (2010)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Book/Movie Fusion, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-04-08
Updated: 2012-04-08
Packaged: 2017-11-03 06:39:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 5
Words: 41,321
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/378430
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ratherastory/pseuds/ratherastory
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Steve meets Kono, he is twenty-eight and she is twenty. He has never met her before. Kono has known him since she was six years old. Or, the H50 retelling of <i>The Time Traveler's Wife</i>.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

  * For [tailoredshirt](https://archiveofourown.org/users/tailoredshirt/gifts).



> Neurotic Author's Note #1: When I agreed to do a pinch-hit, I didn't quite realise how hard this bunny would bite. **tailoredshirt** expressed an interest in time travel, and challenged whoever got her prompt to not only write Steve/Kono, but to write them as more than just a hot sex pairing, and thus this story was born. I wish I had another three months to write it, but I fear even then I wouldn't be able to do it justice. Audrey Niffeneger I am not. ;)  
>  Neurotic Author's Note #2: I must take this moment to note that I am an ASS who lacks reading comprehension skills, and apologize to **tailoredshirt** for writing something that she'll probably never be able to read.  >_

Sometimes people ask her what it's like, and Kono never knows what to tell them. They think that she must spend all her time waiting for him, but that's not it. Kono doesn't wait for Steve, because Steve is like the tide: coming and going according to a rhythm she only partly understands. He goes unwillingly, comes back with joy and gratitude shining in his eyes, kisses her as though he's been gone a hundred years, until her knees give way. 

She thinks of the beach when she thinks of Steve, because that's where they've met the most often, where they've spent the most time together. She stands on the beach and waits for the tide to come in, the water to lap at her toes, creep up her calves, rise until it's swirling all around her. Being with Steve is like being surrounded by the ocean, buoyed by the salt water and pulled by the currents. It's being free and imprisoned at once.

~*~

"What's it like?" Steve laughs when she asks him. Then he looks at her and his expression sobers when he sees that she's in earnest. "I don't know."

He's not a man to whom words come easily, she knows this. So she goes gently. ('Be gentle, Kono,' he'd begged her the last time she saw him before he met her for the first time. 'For God's sake.' So she is, as gentle as she can be.) She takes his hand and plays with his fingers and tugs on the wristband of his watch as he looks on, mesmerised, a smile playing on his lips. The truth comes slowly, haltingly, one image at a time. How it feels like you've blinked and missed something. One minute you're sitting on the lanai, and the next you're standing hip-deep in the ocean, your beer is gone, presumably smashed as it dropped once you were no longer holding the bottle. Your clothes disappear, too―your favourite cargo pants, your green polo-necked t-shirt that you've worn so often that there's a hole under one of the arms where the seam has given way―and it's nothing but you in your bare skin left to fend for yourself until you're pulled back to where you're meant to be.

"Sometimes it's wonderful," he says, voice quiet. "Everything gets this sort of―glow. And that's usually when I get sick, right after. Like getting a migraine," he laughs a little.

She's read all of the reports about him. Only three people in all of HPD know the true identity of the John Doe who keeps cropping up every so often―always naked and reportedly intoxicated―and she's one of them. She sees from the outside what he experiences as terror and confusion and pain. None of the reports ever manages to quite explain how a crazy _haole_ with no clothes managed to escape from where he was handcuffed in the back of a squad car, or how he vanished from the hospital bed to which he was handcuffed while he was still unconscious. More than half of HPD thinks he's a legend or a wild exaggeration, and the other half think that maybe he's a spirit sent to plague them, though they'll never admit to it out loud.

"You ever have those dreams when you're back in school?" he asks, and she nods. "When you're in a class you don't remember taking and there's an exam you haven't studied for, and you suddenly realise you're not wearing any clothes? It's like that, every time."

"I hate those dreams," Kono says fervently.

Steve closes his eyes for a moment. "I hate them too."


	2. The Boy Who Moved Through Time

_August 15th, 1994: Steve is 29, Kono is 20_

When Steve meets Kono for the first time, it's just after his 29th birthday. She's 21 years old, a vision in a billowing saffron skirt and yellow bikini top, and she throws her arms around him in a bone-crushing hug.

"Oh my God, it's you!"

He stands stock-still, a little shocked by the intimacy of the gesture, and she throws her head back and laughs, teeth like pearls, even and sparkling in the sun, hair wind-swept and salty from the ocean tumbling about her shoulders.

"You told me this would happen."

He thinks he might be gaping at her like a teenager, but it's hard to tell because all his thoughts have vanished like birds startled out of the brush. "Do I know you?"

"Not yet," the girl he will come to know as Kono tells him. "But I've known you my entire life."

~*~

_June 7th, 1990: Kono is 6, Steve is 3_

Kono learns how to lie to her parents when she is six years old. The lies are never very big, because the big lies are the ones that make you get caught. Her cousin Lani teaches her that one day when his big lie gets him a sound spanking―so hard that he can't sit down for ages and ages. Small lies, though, those are easy.

Kono starts making up rules about lies, so that she'll be sure never to get caught. Don't try to pin things you did on other people, because grown-ups won't always believe that lie. Don't lie about finishing what's on your plate, because grown-ups will see right through that. What she finds she can lie about is where she's going and who she's going with. Her mother's rule is really simple: if you go out to the beach, one of your older cousins has to be there to watch for you.

It's cousin Ano who first tells her she can lie. Cousin Ano is really old, almost fifteen, and she has a boyfriend now, a surfer named Jayden who doesn't want little kids tagging along with them when they go for walks. So cousin Ano takes Kono a little way, then sits her down on a beach towel with a green plastic pail and a little red shovel and tells her to make sand castles until she comes back. And that's what Kono does, the first few times. After that, she realises that she can just tell Mama that she's going out to play with cousin Ano or any one of her other older cousins, even, and Mama will just smile and nod and tell her to be home in time for supper.

Kono likes to go to the beach by herself. Mama has told her it's dangerous, but it's only dangerous if you don't know what you're doing, and Kono is a big girl now. She knows about the tide and the undertow, and anyway what she likes best is to play tag with the waves, running out as they pull back and then running back as fast as she can when the waves return, trying to keep the water from touching her feet. She's very good at this game. She also likes to sit on her beach blanket and dig in the sand, too, even though cousin Nahele said sand castles are for little kids. Kono saw once on television that there were contests for making sand castles, and there were lots of grown-ups with pails and shovels and other tools that Mama said Kono didn't need as long as she had her imagination, so she thinks cousin Nahele must not know what he's talking about.

She's building a sand castle when Steve first lands in the water. She doesn't see it happen, but she hears a splash, and when she looks up there's a man standing up to his waist in the water, a little further out than she usually goes because it's too deep for her to keep her feet properly with all the waves.

The man is very, very big―much taller than Papa, and Papa is a giant who can lift her all the way up on his shoulders. He's a _haole_ , she can tell that from here, all white skin even though he's tanned all over, so he's been in the sun for a while. He's looking around, a little confused, then he jumps a little bit when he sees her, so she thinks maybe he wasn't expecting to see her. The waves bob around him, and he lifts a hand to wave at her.

She waves back, but doesn't go closer. Mama told her it's not safe to talk to strangers, even though he seems okay from here. Sometimes, Mama told her, people who look nice aren't nice.

"Hello!" the man calls out. "What's your name?"

"I'm not supposed to talk to strangers!" Kono calls back. He smiles, but it's not one of those annoying smiles grown-ups have when they think they know something you don't.

"Right. Well, that's very sensible. My name is Steve, which means we're not complete strangers anymore. What's your name?"

"My name is Kono Kalakaua," she tells him, feeling more than a little important now.

"I am very pleased to meet you, Kono Kalakaua," he tells her solemnly.

"Why are you standing in the water?" she squints a little suspiciously at him. Most people would have come out of the water by now to talk to her.

"As it happens, I need to borrow your beach towel. Would you mind lending it to me for a few minutes? I don't have anything on."

Kono thinks she understands. This happened to cousin Ano once, too. "Did you lose your swimsuit?"

He laughs. "Something like that, yes."

She races back to her blanket, snatches up the towel that's folded up on it, and dashes back to the water, wading in slowly with the towel held as high as she can so it won't get wet. "Here you go," she holds it out, and he plucks it from her fingers with ease before slowly wading back toward her.

He gets the towel edge wet when he wraps it around his hips, but she supposes he can't help that. It's a pretty big towel, though it looks small on him. He walks easily out of the ocean and joins her on the beach, water dripping down his legs, and she stares at the big tattoos that swirl over his arms and at the small of his back. She's never seen someone with that many tattoos.

"Why isn't your hair wet?"

"I didn't land all the way in the water," he explains, and that sort of makes sense, except for how she doesn't know now how he got here.

"So how did you get here if you didn't swim? There's only one way in here and I didn't see you."

He smiles again, and his eyes sparkle a bit. They're large and blue like the ocean, unlike Mama's or Papa's or anyone else she knows. "That's because I'm a time traveler, and I just appeared there."

"There's no such thing," Kono tells him. Really, it's ridiculous sometimes, the stories grown-ups tell when they think you shouldn't know something.

"There is too," Steve rejoins easily. "I'll prove it to you if you stick around long enough. After a while, I'll just disappear. That's why I don't have my swimsuit, either. When I time travel, I'm not allowed to take anything with me, not even clothes, because I might accidentally leave something behind which would mess up all of history."

She narrows her eyes at him. "Why?"

"I don't know, actually. I haven't figured it out yet. I don't know any other time travelers, either, so it's hard for me to find out these things."

"You're going to disappear?" She feels oddly disappointed. She doesn't really know Steve, but he feels like a friend now.

"Yes, but I'll come back. In fact... what day is today?"

"Monday."

He stops and thinks about that. "Okay, what's the month, and how old are you?"

"I'm six years old, and it's July."

"That means I'm going to be back next week, on Wednesday, at about two o'clock. I'm going to come right back here, actually. Would you do me a favour, Kono?"

"Maybe?"

He laughs at that. "Good girl. Don't ever agree to anything until you know all the terms. I just need you to bring me some clothes to wear, and ask your mother if she'll give you the little red notebook she keeps in the drawer by the phone but never uses, and bring that too."

"How do you know that?" Kono is amazed, and it will only occur to her much, much later that she should have been frightened by the fact that he already knew all these things that he shouldn't know if they'd only just met.

"This isn't the only time we're going to meet. You're going to tell me about the notebook many, many years from now. I'm going to use it to write down all the dates I'm going to be here, on this little beach. You can come and visit with me, if you'd like, but it's okay if sometimes you're too busy to come."

Kono can't think of a day when she'll ever be too busy to go to the beach, but she's too polite to contradict a grown-up. "Okay."

"Also, and I know this is going to sound a little strange, but you can't tell anyone about me just yet. It won't always be like this, but for now, this has to stay a secret. Can you keep a secret?"

"Yes, I can." Kono is really good at keeping secrets.

His expression changes, then, the look in his eyes growing faraway like Papa's when he's thinking of something sad. "I'm going now, Kono. Good-bye."

She doesn't know what else to do, so she reaches up to shake his hand, and he smiles down at her and mimics her gesture solemnly. The last thing she sees is him smiling down at her a little sadly before he simply fades and vanishes, leaving her towel in a crumpled pile in the sand.

~*~

Kono pesters her mother about the notebook that very evening. If Mama is surprised that she's asking for it, she doesn't show it at all.

"Of course you can have it," she says, pulling it out of the drawer. "I forgot it was there, to be honest. What do you want it for?"

"I'm going to take notes in it," Kono tells her importantly, and Mama laughs.

"Of course. What else would you use a notebook for?"

Papa isn't as tall as Steve, but he's bigger, Kono decides after thinking about it for a while. His clothes should fit. She doesn't think Steve needs much, especially since he's just going to leave it all behind. She takes a pair of Papa's old swimming trunks and the shirt that Mama hates, and stuffs them both in a plastic bag which she hides under her bed. She's fairly dancing with anticipation, can't sleep at all that first night, until Mama gives her a big cup of hot milk with honey in it and sings to her until her eyes finally close.

She has trouble sleeping the night before Steve is meant to come back, too, but this time she pretends so that Mama won't sit in her room with her and ask question, because now she's bursting to tell someone, anyone about her secret. But she promised Steve she wouldn't, and that's more important than how excited she is that Steve is going to come back. 

She goes to the beach early in the morning. It's easy enough to slip out of the house because Mama thinks she's out with her cousins at the main beach, and her cousins don't really care if she's there or not because they're all bigger than she is and they like to play games that don't involve her.

Steve isn't there, and for a moment she thinks that maybe he's not going to come, until she remembers that he said he would only be coming in the afternoon. She has her picnic basket, though, and she can stay here all day and Mama won't mind unless she's not home in time for dinner with her hands washed and her hair tied back.

She builds a big sand castle right by the edge of the water and watches as the waves slowly start to creep up and eat away at the foundation. Kono likes to dig moats around her castles, but if she's too far up the beach there's no water in them and she has to carry some back in her bucket and it always gets absorbed by the sand. If she builds the castle closer to the water then her moats fill all by themselves, but the sand under the castles crumbles away before too long and the castles fall down and she has to start over.

Steve lands in the water just as the last of her castle is disappearing into the waves. He doesn't say hi right away, just turns around and throws up into the water. Kono's already wading out toward him with her plastic bag, and she wrinkles her nose.

"Ew."

He wipes his mouth with his wrist. "Sorry."

"Are you sick?"

"No, time travel sometimes makes me sick to my stomach. It's not all that much fun, actually."

Kono gets carsick sometimes, so she understands. She thrusts her bag at him. "I brought you a shirt and swimming trunks."

The trunks are a bit big on him, but he pulls the drawstring tight and thanks her nicely before pulling on the ugly shirt, and she takes his hand so they can walk out of the water together.

"Are you staying this time?"

"A few hours, I think."

"Okay."

Steve asks her to show him the rest of the beach, so she hangs onto his hand and shows him all the places she likes to go, the pool where the hermit crabs like to hide, and all the pretty flowers and plants that grow where the sand stops. He stoops once while they're walking along the sand, scoops something up and deposits it into her outstretched hand. It's a shell, wet and shining with black spots, and it nestles comfortably in the palm of her hand.

"That's _cypraea tigris_ ," he tells her. "A tiger cowrie. They actually grow much bigger than that usually, so this one must be made specially for you. It's unusual for one to be out here on the beach like this―I always find the ones I look for in coral caves."

Kono's eyes grow wide. "You go and look at the coral?"

"Yeah. It's sort of a hobby. I'll take you one day, when you're older, if you'd like."

She nods fervently. "Yes. Why can't we go now?"

He closes her hand around the shell gently. "It's not time yet, that's why. You have to be a bit older. But that doesn't mean we still can't go looking for shells on the beach. Do you know what beach combing is?"

She wrinkles her nose.

"Beach combing," he tells her, "is walking along the beach just like we're doing now, and looking for treasure."

"Like gold?"

"Sometimes, but mostly it's natural treasures, like shells and stuff. Those are far more interesting than gold, anyway. You'll see, I promise."

"Okay." She's not sure she believes him, but he seems to think it's true, and sometimes grown-ups have funny ideas about stuff. "Do you want a sandwich? I brought some extra for you."

"No, thank you," he shakes his head. "My stomach is still a little funny. But it's nice of you to offer."

"Does it always make you sick?"

"No, sometimes I travel and I'm starving wherever I land. It sort of depends, but I haven't figured out why one time is different from another yet."

Kono doesn't know what that means, so she puts it out of her mind. "I brought the notebook," she tells him, and his face brightens.

"Okay, let's go back, and I'll write down all the times I'll come back."

He sits on her big blanket next to her while she eats her sandwich and starts writing down dates in the red notebook. He opens it up to show her, to make sure that she can read everything he's written, and seems pleased when she tells him she can.

"You're very smart. Not every little girl your age can read so well."

"I'm the best reader in my class," she informs him proudly. "I can already read chapter books and everything!"

He smiles at that, but he doesn't say anything. He's got that sad look again, and he closes the notebook and sets it aside.

"Are you going again?"

"I'm afraid so."

When he's gone she stuffs the clothes back into the plastic bag and races home so that she can tuck the red notebook away at the back of her closet, safe for now until she finds a hiding place where she knows no one will ever find it. She's never had a friend like Steve, doesn't know anyone else who has, either, and she can tell that this is something very strange and very special. For a moment she finds that she's a little sad that she won't be able to tell anyone about him, but she's also glad, because it means that no one else will get to have this, that for once she will have something that is hers alone.

~*~

_November 22nd, 1998: Steve is 22 and 5_

When Steve is twenty-two years old, he is sitting on the beach perhaps a hundred yards away from his father's house, telling himself to man up already and go talk to his father. Stress hasn't ever been his friend, though, and so he isn't altogether surprised when he takes a step forward in the sand only to find everything melting away around him. He lands hard on a cold floor, his stomach churning and his ears buzzing loudly. He groans softly, pushes himself to his feet, immediately starts looking around to figure out just where he is and where the nearest set of clothing might be.

It's then that he recognises the place: it's the non-public area of the Waikiki Aquarium, and that can only mean one thing. It's his fifth birthday, and the first time he ever traveled in time. His father brought him and a few of his friends here, and he'd been so excited that he'd sat up half the night thinking about it, until suddenly he'd found himself back at the Aquarium, staring at the fish swimming lazily in one of the huge tanks.

He smiles to himself, even though it feels like his stomach is trying to turn inside out, backs up until he's hugging the nearest wall. He can't get caught now, he needs to go explain things to his five-year-old self, and that means he needs to find some clothing, first. There's a storage closet further down the hall from where he is, and the door is mercifully unlocked. Inside there's a set of overalls and a grubby overshirt, doubtless the janitor's clothing, and beneath that he find a white t-shirt that will probably fit him. He doesn't put the t-shirt on, though, just tugs on the overalls and shrugs into the overshirt and keeps the t-shirt balled up in one hand. He pads back out into the hallway, not bothering with shoes this time around. If he remembers rightly, he won't be needing them anyway.

He slips quietly along the darkened hallways in the maintenance area until he finds a door to the public spaces, then heads purposefully toward the sea horse display. There's a little boy there with his nose pressed to the glass, stark naked and grinning from ear to ear. His dark hair is mussed as though he was sleeping―even though Steve knows he wasn't―and when he turns around to look at who's coming up behind him his blue eyes are sparkling.

"Hi, Steve," Steve says.

"Who are you?" the little boy asks.

"I'm a friend. Do you know why you're here?"

The little boy shakes his head. "Is this a dream?"

"No, it's not a dream. Do you see over there?" Steve points to a small group of children, including one who could be the little boy's twin brother, except of course it isn't. "That's you, except it's several hours before you went to bed tonight. You time traveled, so you could get to live your birthday over again. Isn't that exciting?"

The little boy's grin grows impossibly wider. "Wow."

"I know. Here, you should put this on before people see you and wonder why you're in your birthday suit. Did you know that my name is Steve too? It's a heck of a coincidence, right? But it means we're going to be friends for a very long time. Would you like that?"

"Okay. Do you time travel too?" The boy lets Steve tug the white t-shirt over his head, raising his arms obediently and then taking his hand without reservation. Steve doesn't really remember a time when he was this trusting, but the reminder that it did happen warms his heart a little. 

"As it happens, I am a time traveler too. So we're going to meet up a few more times when you're older, and I'm going to show you everything you need to know. But for today, we don't have to do any of that. We're going to go and explore the bits of the Aquarium that you never got to see today. Would you like that?"

"Yeah!"

Steve grins. "All right, grasshopper. Keep hold of my hand, and I'm going to show you the coral reefs. You got to see the big exciting shows earlier today, but I know you're going to love the coral reefs."

He remembers, of course, being enthralled by the coral when he was five. His father and mother had taken him and his friends to see the fish and the dolphins, and he'd stared at the unicorn fish and the angel fish and been fascinated, but what he remembers the most about his birthday, even now nearly twenty years later, is the brightly-coloured anemones, the tiny fish that darted in and out of the reefs and were essential to its survival as much as it was essential to theirs. He remembers holding the hand of a tall man who told him about time travel but who mostly importantly told him all about the delicate balance of life that existed in the reefs, how everything was linked together and how important it was to be ever so careful, so that the reefs would live forever and ever. He remembers staring through the glass at the flashes of orange and yellow and green and blue and red, the iridescent swirl of fish as they swam past, their fins sometimes flickering to fast for him to see. Mostly he remembers feeling as though this, unlike anywhere else, was home. 

Steve can sense himself going, but he remembers that he's not the first one to depart tonight. He drops to one knee and ruffles the boy's hair. "I think our time is up for tonight, bucko. You're going to go back to your bed now, and when you wake up in the morning this will probably feel like a really great dream. I wouldn't tell anyone about it, though."

"Not even Mommy?"

Steve considers this for a moment. "Sure, you can tell Mommy. There's no harm in that. She likes to hear about your adventures, doesn't she?"

He never hears the answer to his question, just finds himself holding an empty white t-shirt a moment later. Then he's back on the beach outside his father's house, his own clothes in an untidy pile about twenty feet away from him.

He looks up at the house, sees the light on in his father's study. It's much later than it was, nearly eleven o'clock at night by his watch, which thankfully landed on top of his clothes and thus didn't get any sand in it. He sighs. He doesn't know what he was thinking, coming all the way out here. His father long ago made it clear that he wanted nothing to do with him, and he doesn't see why coming tonight would make any difference.

Steve picks up his clothes and walks back along the beach. Right now, seventeen years ago, his five-year-old self is excitedly telling their mother all about the dream he had, and Mom is nodding sagely.

"Time-travel sounds like a really wonderful adventure," Mom told him then, and he's never forgotten it.

~*~

_December 24th, 1987: Steve is 11_

There's no warning at all when Steve's mother dies. Later on, when he's a teenager and old enough to understand exactly what happened, he'll scream at the older version of himself sitting on his bed looking at him with eyes filled with the same sadness and pain he can feel in his own heart, and demand to know why he never warned him. He'll refuse to listen to the calm, rational explanation that he couldn't warn himself because it had already happened. Because it would happen again. Because it happens over and over and over and there is nothing either of them, any of them, can do about it.

Steve's mother is a beautiful woman. Even when Steve is eleven years old and barely mature enough to realise that beauty in women is something that men―indeed almost everyone―are meant to appreciate, he thinks she is the most beautiful woman in the world. She has hair the same colour as Mary's, almost as white as the sand on the beach by their house, and it glows in the sunlight when she sits outside with him and helps him to build sandcastles. She works part-time now that Mary is old enough to go to school, but the rest of the time she's at home.

When he's older, what Steve will remember most clearly about her is that she loved to sing. The whole house would be filled with the sound of her voice, humming her favourite tunes as she cooked or cleaned or painted. She sang when she drove, and she'd make Steve sing with her even though he couldn't carry a tune. 

She's singing now as they drive to get Mary from her friend's house. Steve's been home all day with a headache, and he's out of sorts because he's slept for the better part of the morning and afternoon and is still groggy, and she's singing a silly song about a kid who wants his teeth back for Christmas, and he wishes she'd stop because it's making his head hurt.

"Mom," he starts plaintively. "Do you have to sing that?"

She turns in her seat a little to smile tolerantly at him in the rearview mirror, opens her mouth, and that's the last thing she ever does. There's a weird clicking sound, and the next thing Steve knows he's standing by the side of the road, shivering in the sudden breeze, watching his mother drive past in the car, her head turned so that he can only see her blond hair pulled into a loose bun at the nape of her neck. He imagines he can see tendrils of hair escaping in tiny wisps, even though he's too far away to see.

The car explodes. 

"Mommy!"

He's thrown backward by the force of the blast, lands hard on his hip on the shoulder of the road. There's fire and metal raining from the sky, and Steve has to throw his arms over his head to keep from getting hit by the debris. All around cars are coming to a screeching halt, people are jumping from their seats to get to the burning wreckage, yelling things he can't make out at all. His stomach roils violently, and he rolls to his hands and knees in order to throw up onto the grass near the shoulder. 

Steve doesn't ever remember exactly what happens after that. He sits there, not twenty yards from where his mother is burning, and watches the flames lick at the clear blue sky. Someone finds him―a man's voice asks if he's okay, and when he doesn't answer a blanket is wrapped around his shoulders.

"It's going to be okay, Steve," the man says to him, rubbing his arm comfortingly just below the shoulder. "I promise. I know it doesn't seem like it now, but you're going to be okay. You see that ambulance that's pulling up?"

Steve nods dumbly. It's impossible to miss the ambulance, sirens wailing and lights flashing. He used to think ambulances were cool, like fire trucks, but now the firemen are milling about trying to extinguish the flames and pulling out a wicked-looking metal tool that they're going to use to cut his mother's remains out of the car. He wonders how he ever thought he could like fire trucks.

"Okay, good. I need you to get up and go over to the paramedics. Tell them you rolled out of the car when it caught on fire, okay? You took off your clothes because they were burning. Got it, Steve? You can't tell them you time-traveled, they won't believe you. If they ask, you weren't wearing your seat belt, but they won't ask."

The man nudges him in the small of the back, and Steve gets up mechanically and walks across the road. There are two police cars there now, blocking the traffic in either direction. No one notices at first, until he goes up to the nearest paramedic and puts a hand on his elbow, making the man jump.

"Holy―! I never saw you there, son. You all right?"

Steve shakes his head. "Is my mother still in there?"

The man looks stricken. "Oh, kid, is that your mother? Were you in the car, son?"

He nods. "I rolled out when it caught fire," he says, remembering the strange man's instructions. He feels like he's underwater. Maybe none of it's real. Real people don't live underwater.

"Jesus. Okay, come over here and sit down, okay? What's your name?"

"Steve. Steve McGarrett. Someone should tell my dad..." he stops, looks over at where his mother's car is still smouldering. "He's a cop. He works for HPD. Someone should tell him Mom is hurt."

That attracts the attention of one of the local officers. "Oh my God, that's Jack McGarrett's kid. Someone get dispatch to contact him, get him over here ASAP. Hey, hey Steve, you remember me?" the cop drops to a crouch to talk to him, face scrunched up with concern. "I work with your dad, buddy. You okay? Were you in the car?" Steve nods, and the cop reaches up to squeeze his shoulder. "It's going to be okay. We're going to get your dad down here, get you checked out. It's going to be okay."

"I know," Steve says before he can think better of it. "The man said so."

"What man, Steve?"

Steve looks back across the road, but the man is long gone. "I don't know."

~*~

Kono is almost eight years old when she comes to understand that most little girls don't have a Steve in their lives.

"By then," she'll tell Steve when they are both much older and are lying tangled in each other on his bed, his fingers carding through her hair, "I was completely used to having this old naked guy appear in the water and demand clothes and food. I think you were more freaked out by your nudity than I was. I think you were worried you were going to warp my impressionable young mind," she'll say with a laugh, and watch as the corners of his eyes crinkle a bit in wry amusement.

At eight, Kono is well aware of what having an imaginary friend means, and she knows that Steve is far too realistic to be imaginary. She doesn't have to play pretend at all when he's there: he's solid and warm when she touches him, and he knows things that she doesn't, which an imaginary friend couldn't do. Last year Inge Wahlberg still played with an imaginary friend called Celia, and everybody else in the class laughed at her because she was too old for imaginary friends. Kono took that lesson to heart, and she is careful never to mention Steve to any of her classmates. Steve is her secret, he trusts her not to tell anyone about him, and she would rather be put to the flame than betray that trust.

Her days are spent divided between home and the beach. Mama doesn't approve much of her wandering off alone and unsupervised, but she promises not to go far on the days she doesn't lie outright about where she's going. Mama likes having her home, too, to help with the cooking. Even though Kono is a terrible cook for the most part, she knows how to make a killer spam fried rice, and whenever her cousins come over to eat they demand that she make some. Even on days when she'd rather be alone at the beach, she doesn't really mind being in Mama's warm kitchen, cooking eggs in the pan to mix in with the rice, breathing in the familiar smells of kalua pig and cabbage, _laulau_ and chicken long rice. Long after she leaves home for good she'll associate this room with the taste of papaya juice licked from her fingers, the bright colours of melons and guava and bananas scattered across the kitchen table.

When she's well into her twenties, she'll always have a giant bowl of fruit in the middle of the kitchen table. Steve will complain that they can't possibly eat all that fruit before it goes bad and that they're wasting money, and she will prove him wrong every single time. She loves the way the sunlight looks when it streams through the tiny kitchen window and makes the fruit glow.

At eight years old Kono knows that she isn't like any of the other girls her age. She's not like any of the kids her age, and she doesn't care. She brings home report cards that simultaneously praise her for her grades and reprimand her for being continually distracted and lacking focus. Kono's imagination takes her to the beach every day, even when Steve isn't there, and she has adventures enough to fill three lifetimes.

~*~

_January 1st, 2010: Steve is 34, Kono is 26_

Steve is gone when Kono wakes up, leaving a warm spot in the bed beside her, the bedclothes just settling where he disappeared. She turns onto her side, places her hand where he was in order to feel the residual heat seep into her palm. The morning sun is streaming in through the window, and she has nowhere to be today, so she simply curls up and waits, pulling her novel off the bedside table to keep herself occupied.

Steve pads in from the hallway a few minutes later and slides into the bed next to her, pulling the sheets back over them both. He shivers a little, and she shifts over to cuddle up to him, enjoying the feel of his arms sliding across her skin.

"Where were you?"

"1992. You just got your first surfboard," he smiles down at her. "It was really cute. You were so damned talented, even then."

It's been long enough that she's not bitter about her destroyed knee anymore. Long enough that she can smile right along with him at the memory. "I remember that. You were very patient with me as I nattered on endlessly about stuff you've known for years."

"You have no idea how much I enjoy talking to you, no matter what age you are," he says, soft and low, breath warm against her neck, and goosebumps break out over her skin. "And you were always a precocious kid anyway. Perceptive as all hell, and so smart. Every time I go back I feel like a class-A idiot. You know I brush up on stuff so that I'll be sure to be able to help you with your homework now? I don't remember a damned thing about algebra, and I'm always afraid that one day you'll be fourteen and ask me to double-check your equations."

She laughs. "Poor Steve. It must be such a trial, being a little girl's hero."

"You have no idea."

His hands are in motion again, re-learning the curves of her body. She's lost some weight lately, weight she probably couldn't afford to lose to begin with, but while Steve insists on buying her as many _malasadas_ as she's willing to eat, he's never once said anything about her appearance to her, except to tell her how beautiful she is. Sometimes, in her less charitable moments, she wonders what he truly sees when he looks at her, if he sees her at all or rather some crystallised ideal, trapped in a glass bubble.

His thumb brushes over her nipple, and she stiffens a little at the sensation, her body torn between wanting to pull away and push in closer, but when he pulls her toward him to brush his lips against the tender spot where her jaw joins her neck she turns into the kiss, wraps one leg around his. She loves these times, when he comes back from visiting her younger self smiling and relaxed, eyes free of the shadows that tell her that he's gone back yet again to the scene of his mother's death, or just narrowly escaped some other disaster. At times like these all he wants is to be as close to her as possible, and because he's often been with her when she was just a child, he's especially gentle with his touches. She doesn't always want him to be gentle, but these moments are special, something she knows that only they have.

Steve kisses her, slow and hot and easy, and she tugs his hand down until she can feel his fingers tease past the tangle of public hair and move to circle her clit, teasing at first, then rubbing a little more insistently until she can't help herself and thrusts against him in small, urgent circles. He keeps kissing her languidly, his tongue lambent against hers, almost matching the movement of his fingers, his erect cock pressing against her thigh. He's in no hurry to finish though, moving his hand lower to work his fingers in deeper, pressing against that sweet spot that no one but him has ever been able to find. She arches into his touch, moaning quietly as she feels the familiar tension of orgasm beginning to build deep in her belly.

"God, Steve..."

It's not the kind of climax that comes like a tsunami, blindsiding her and tossing her like an insignificant piece of flotsam to be tumbled ashore, winded and gasping desperately for air. She sees the wave coming from a distance, rides it the way she would if she was surfing, feeling the thrum and power of the ocean beneath her, carrying her along but giving her the illusion of control. Steve lets her set the pace, moving against his hand and his tongue, her hands on his shoulders, fingers digging in so hard that her fingernails leave indentations the shape of a half-moon in his skin that will take hours to fade entirely.

She gasps into his mouth when she comes, barely leaves herself time to recover before she presses up more tightly against him, lining herself up with his dick and letting him slide in easily, while she's still relaxed and almost boneless with pleasure. He smiles against her mouth, still moving slowly, excruciatingly so, and she wants him to hurry up as much as she wants this to last forever, every single nerve ending alight with desire, and she pulls away from the kiss in order to lick and suck her way along his neck and jaw, urging him along. She feels him shudder when he orgasms with nothing more than a quiet sigh, face buried in her shoulder, then slowly relax in her arms, utterly spent. She strokes his hair.

"You good?"

"Better than."

He doesn't move, and neither does she. In a few moments, they're both asleep again, sated and warm in the morning sun.

~*~

_December 24th, 2002: Kono is 17, Steve is 33_

Chin Ho Kelly is coming out of the hospital room to which Steve was kindly directed a minute ago by a helpful nurse. He starts a little, obviously not expecting to see anyone else in the place at this hour. Visiting hours are pretty much over, now, and Steve is wearing hospital scrubs that he stole out of a supply closet, along with a white lab coat. He doesn't look like a doctor, he knows―still sporting a five o'clock shadow, hair unwashed―but he's hoping Chin won't question it. Of course, he's never so lucky. Chin is too good a cop for that, even this early in his career.

"Howzit?" Chin greets him, casually stepping in front of him and blocking his access to the room. "Whose room you looking for, _brah_?"

"Is this Kono's room?"

Chin's eyes narrow. "You her doctor?"

It's not a good idea to lie. Chin knows all of Kono's doctors, knows exactly who performed her surgery and who provided consultations. Lying at this point is only going to get Steve in more trouble, and he doesn't know how long he's going to be here. Somewhere out there in Honolulu, his twenty-six-year-old self is on the point of passing out at a bar downtown for alcohol poisoning, having tried very hard to drink himself into oblivion rather than face Christmas Eve by himself. He's going to be admitted into the ER of this same hospital in a matter of hours. Somewhere deep down inside, Steve thinks it's really unfair that he has to relive another Christmas Eve on top of all the regularly allotted ones.

"No, I'm a friend. Not a close one, or anything," he allows himself a small lie. "I got admitted for a stupid accident earlier, and they're letting me walk around a bit, get the pins and needles out. I remembered she was supposed to have surgery, thought I'd look in, see how she was recovering."

Chin nods, apparently satisfied with this answer filled with half-truths. "Visiting hours are nearly over, the nurses will probably kick you out in a minute, but I think she'll enjoy the company. Family went home nearly an hour ago. It's hard, spending Christmas on your own like this."

"Yeah."

Kono isn't sleeping when he's managed to get past the dragon at the gate and slips into her room. She's gazing listlessly at the tiny television in the corner of the room, showing a grainy animatronic Christmas special that Steve has never watched in its entirety. The adventures of Rudolph the red-nosed reindeer, if his memory serves him right. She brightens when she sees him, though.

"You came!"

He shrugs and smiles sheepishly. "It wasn't deliberate, but... yeah. I don't have flowers, sorry." He pulls up a chair next to her bed, takes her hand when she reaches for him. "How are you doing?"

She bites her lip. "The surgery went fine. As well as anyone could have hoped for."

Steve caresses the back of her hand with his thumb. "That's not what I was asking," he says gently, and isn't surprised at all when she bursts into tears and sobs as though her heart is breaking.

It's a combination of exhaustion and pain and the side effects of being under general anaesthesia for the surgery, and most importantly the realisation that she's never going be able to surf professionally ever again. Thus far it's been the one thing she loves in life (apart from Steve, and that's an entirely different kind of love). Steve has never had anything like this, never had a ruling passion in his life the way Kono does, but he still knows how much this hurt her. He slides over to sit on her bed, perched with one hip on the edge, and pulls her into his arms. It's not often that she lets herself be comforted like this, but this time she melts against him and cries until the shirt of his green hospital scrubs is completely soaked through. He doesn't try to say anything, just strokes her hair and traces circles on her back with his fingers, waiting for her to cry herself out.

"I'm sorry," she gasps finally, scrubbing at her face with the back of her wrist.

"Don't be," he tells her firmly. "You're perfectly entitled to sob and scream and throw things. In fact, I will volunteer to have you throw things at my head, if that's what it takes. I make a very tempting target," he says, and it earns him a watery, half-choked laugh. "For what it's worth, you'll be fine."

She looks up, eyes swollen from crying, face blotchy and tear-stained. "Will I surf again?"

He tucks her hair behind her ear. "Yes, but you won't compete. I promise, you find something else that you'll love just as much, though, and you'll get back up on a board, too."

She takes a shaky breath, and nods. "Chin was telling me about HPD. I was thinking, if I can get through rehab, I might try out for the Academy."

Steve kisses the top of her head. "I think you can do anything you put your mind to," he tells her truthfully. He can't tell her all the details, because knowing the future messes everything up, but there are no hard-and-fast rules about giving someone hope.

"Will you stay this time?" she asks.

He still can't promise her anything. "As long as I can manage."

~*~

_July 17th, 1989: Steve is 12, Mary is 7_

Living with Dad is like living with a ghost after Steve's mother dies. At first Steve thought maybe it wouldn't be so bad―Dad grabbed him and hugged him so hard he almost suffocated after the accident―but soon he realises that was wishful thinking. He stands next to Dad at the funeral while Mary buries her head in his shirt and wails, and wonders why neither he nor Dad are crying. He hopes it doesn't mean that he's being disrespectful to Mom, but it feels like he can't remember how to cry properly.

After the funeral and the wake at which he gets very drunk, Dad spends all his time at work. When he does get home, often long after dinner is over, he doesn't so much as look at Steve or at Mary, just disappears in his study for hours. One night Mary ventures past the closed door only to flee back in tears to seek refuge in Steve's arms. He holds her close, kisses the top of her head.

"What happened?"

Mary is hiccuping too hard to make much sense, so Steve picks her up even though she's nearly eight years old and is getting way too big for him to manage properly and hauls her into the kitchen. He sits her down on a stool, wipes her face roughly with a dishcloth until she stops snivelling.

"Is Mommy in Heaven?" she asks him, and he guesses that was the question that got her thrown out of Dad's office.

"Sure, peanut," he deliberately uses Mom's nickname for her. Steve isn't really sure about God or Heaven these days, but he's twelve years old now, nearly thirteen, (Mom promised him a cake, but she's dead now, it seems unfair to resent the fact that he never got to celebrate his birthday) and he knows that little kids need reassurance. "She's going to watch over you now."

"Like an angel?"

"Like an angel."

Maybe it shouldn't come as a surprise, but Steve is still shocked when, one morning shortly before his thirteenth birthday, Jack McGarrett sits both him and Mary down and explains to them calmly that he's sending them away. Mary cries, because that's what Mary does best, but Dad isn't even looking at them, just staring at a spot on the wall somewhere above Steve's left shoulder.

"Why can't we stay here?" Steve asks, even though he knows it's pointless. Arguing with Dad never got anyone anywhere.

Dad sighs. "It's because I can't take care of you properly, Steven. You're growing kids, you need someone who's going to be home, who's going to be able to cook you meals and help with your homework. You need stability, and I can't give you that. I'm sending you to Aunt Krissie's on the mainland. You'll like it there, you'll have cousins close to your age to play with, and you'll even get to have snow in the winter. You'll like it," he repeats, and he makes it sound almost like an order. Steve wonders what would happen if he disobeyed the order.

"I've been taking good care of Mare," he says stubbornly, his heart thudding in his ribcage. "My grades are still good, Dad. We don't have to go!"

"You'll do as I say, and that's that," Dad snaps, and Steve knows that tone well enough to know better than to try to argue. "Go and pack your things. Take only what you absolutely need for two weeks, I'll have the rest shipped."

"We're going now?" Steve's voice betrays him and cracks, but Dad is already on his feet and walking toward the door.

"Plane leaves tomorrow."

Mary wails and calls for her daddy, but Steve holds her still in his lap to keep her from running after him, lets her cry and scream and sob until she's exhausted. In a minute, he tells himself, he'll take her upstairs and help her to pack, and then he'll put her to bed so he can pack his own things.

In a minute.

~*~

_November 2nd, 1992: Steve is 15 and 17_

"I hate it here," his younger self tells Steve. He remembers this, remembers hating juvenile detention with every fibre of his being. It's not that long ago, even though it feels like a lifetime has passed, like he's a different person now. He remembers the smells most of all, the cheap cleaning products, the smell of bleach that clung to everything without anything ever really getting clean. He felt dirty the whole time he was in this place, with its drab wall, the institutional paint, the grey floors and the dingy windows in the classrooms.

"I know," he says, though what he really wants to say is: 'It's going to be fine, I promise.'

"What's happening to you now?" his younger self wants to know. He remembers this, too. Remembers wanting to be held and reassured that it was all going to be okay, but he knows he's not going to say anything of the sort.

He shakes his head. "I tell you, it'll drive you crazy. It's not so far away, anyway. You'll find out soon enough."

His younger self reaches around to rub a hand over Steve's bare stomach, lets his fingertips trail along the faint line of hair all the way down to tangle in his pubic hair, tugs in a way that goes right to Steve's cock. He still hasn't met anyone else who time travels, but he figures if anyone else were to be able to do it, there's no reason they wouldn't have sex with themselves. When he bothers to think of it at all, he figures it's just a more complicated form of jerking off. He shifts backwards in the bed a little, feeling the other Steve's dick nudging him in the back, hot and hard and insistent. They're lucky that Steve hasn't been assigned a bunkmate, that he gets a comparative amount of privacy by all standards of juvenile detention.

"It's not even my fault," the younger Steve mutters mutinously into his shoulder. "Wasn't trying to cut class."

"You know that and I know that, but it's not like you can just go up to them and explain that you actually traveled in time and that's why you weren't in class. Oh, and turning up naked on school grounds."

"Not my fault," the younger Steve protests, and he knows himself well enough to know that he's never going to shut up about this, indignation boiling hot in his veins. So Steve just turns around and makes him shut up by kissing him and bringing him off without so much as spitting in his own palm. He's nearly eighteen years old now, and he's got way more stamina than his fifteen-year-old counterpart who's only just beginning his stint in juvie. It takes next to nothing to get him off, and for a moment Steve is almost jealous of how quickly it happens.

They're almost caught one time, but in a funny twist of irony the younger Steve gets so stressed at the thought of being caught and punished that he simply vanishes right out of his bed, leaving Steve by himself to stammer his way through an explanation during the otherwise routine bed check.

"Be less fucking loud when you beat off, McGarrett," is the amused response, before the door slams shut again and the key turns in the lock.

Steve is laughing to himself by the time his other self returns, and he's treated to a glare that might very well peel the paint off the walls. "You knew!" Steve accuses him. "You knew the whole time and you didn't say anything! Why didn't you warn me they were going to do the bed-check?"

He shrugs. "Because it already happened. Because there's nothing I can do about it. Because nothing ever changes, and you should get used to it."

"Fuck you. They're going to hassle me for weeks now."

He shakes his head. "No, they're not. You want to know things ahead of time? Fine. Tomorrow Joey Reichner is going to hassle you in the dining hall, and when he doesn't let up you're going to break his nose for him with your elbow. After that, no one's going to bug you again, because they think you're crazy. You're also going to get a week's worth of punishment for that―no privileges, curfew one hour earlier, and you're going to be scrubbing toilets during your free time. How's that?"

Steve glares. "What'd you tell me that for?"

"Aren't you the one who wanted to know the future?"

Steve lets out an explosive breath, clearly exasperated, but the point has been made. "Teach me to pick a lock?" he asks instead. He looks weirdly vulnerable, sitting cross-legged and naked on the bed.

Steve doesn't answer him at first, just pulls on the pants that his younger self lent him while he's here. "I don't know how."

"You said last time we saw each other that you'd teach me."

He shakes his head. "I remember that conversation. Haven't learned it yet. But I will, I promise. I'm still figuring it out. I'm getting better at picking pockets, too. A little more practice, and maybe I'll be able to teach you."

It's Steve's dirty little secret, all these petty crimes. He's never been caught except for once, and that's why he went to juvie to begin with. The unfairness of it still stings, because it was his first offence, at least in the eyes of the law, and any other time he might have gotten away with it. This time, though, he fell on a judge who wanted to set an example, who thought tough love was the way to go with wayward teenagers. And that's how Steve ended up in this tiny, cramped room with only himself for company and nothing to look forward to except two years' worth of the occasional visit from his aunt, who to this day views both him and Mary as more trouble than they're worth. It's not like he can explain to her that stealing clothing and food temporarily is the only way he can cope with time traveling and not end up starving or freezing to death while he's waiting to go back to wherever it is he came from.

"You promise?"

"Do you have to ask?"

"It's weird. It's like you have a script, now, because you've already had this conversation, so you know how it's supposed to go. What happens now?"

"What would you like to happen now?"

Steve licks his lips. "If you take the pants back off, we can fool around until you go."

Steve can't think of a single reason to refuse. After all, he tells himself, in another few months this will technically be illegal, and besides, it's already happened.

~*~

_July 17th, 1993: Steve is 15 and 30_

John McGarrett is well into his fifth glass of bourbon for the night, and Steve knows for a fact that he's probably supplemented it quite a lot with whatever alcohol he had on hand at home. For once Steve's got a set of clothes that don't look entirely ridiculous and all the cash he lifted from the wallet some guy left in his unlocked BMW. He was anxious to get back from whenever the hell this is―Kono is about to graduate from the Academy, and he desperately wants to be there for the ceremony―and since alcohol usually makes his little problem worse, he decided that a couple of stiff drinks wouldn't hurt.

So he stepped into the nearest bar he could find that wasn't a total dive, only to find himself sitting not three feet away from a younger version of his father. He knows the date thanks to a discarded newspaper by the door, and a half-remembered conversation with his father runs through his mind. He picks a stool next to his father, leaving one stool between them in a silent show of respecting the man's personal space. He knows his dad well enough to know that he'll appreciate the gesture.

He orders himself a drink―the same as his father's having―downs it in one gulp and motions for another. He can feel John's eyes on him now, curious in spite of himself. Steve has drawn just enough attention to himself that he knows his father is trying to place him but can't quite figure out why he seems familiar.

"Have we met?"

He turns his head. "Don't think so. The name's Steve. You obviously have good taste in alcohol," he extends his hand, and his father shakes it readily.

"John McGarrett," he says, apparently not noticing or perhaps not caring that Steve didn't provide him with a last name. "My son's name is Steve."

"Good taste in names too, then," he grins, and they clink glasses, seemingly of a common accord. "He a good kid?"

"The best," his father says, and Steve is tempted to down his drink in one swallow again. Somewhere on the mainland, his fifteen-year-old self is crying into his pillow in juvenile detention, convinced his father hates him. "Having problems, though. Probably because his mother's gone," he says, staring into the bottom of his glass as though maybe it holds the answers to some imponderable question.

"Divorced or passed away?" Steve makes himself ask the question, even though he knows the answer.

"Door number two," John swirls the liquid around in his glass. "Boy needs his mother, you know? She was better at keeping him out of trouble. I'm a pretty lousy father by most standards. Worked too much, and then Jillian died..."

It's odd, hearing his mother's name like that for the first time in years. His father doesn't seem to notice his discomfiture, though, just keeps talking to the contents of his glass.

"And then I drank too much. I nearly hit my girl, you know. She burst into my study without knocking and, God help me, I nearly smacked her, even though she was eight years old and didn't know any better. I had to send them away, keep them safe. As much from myself as from everything else that was happening."

"Sounds rough." He can't think of anything else to say. This is the only time he'll ever truly know what's happening behind John McGarrett's tough facade, the one moment in which his father is being entirely honest, and that's because he has no idea who Steve is. It's a depressing thought.

His father snorts. "Yeah, well. Got no one to blame but myself, I guess."

"Nope. But... it doesn't make you a bad person either. It's funny―more of a strange kind of funny―but you kind of remind me of my own dad." Understatement. "He hit the sauce after my mom left, and I got into a dozen different kinds of trouble while he wasn't around. He cleaned himself up, though. Brought me back home after―well, after a while."

His father takes a sip of his drink. "You suggesting something?"

He shakes his head. "Not my place. I'm just saying, it's probably not too late. Sons never stop loving their fathers, same way you'll never stop loving your kid. It's the way the world works." He finishes his own drink, feels a familiar sensation beginning to coil somewhere between his spine and his stomach, drops a bill on the bar and gets up. "I have somewhere I gotta be, John, but it was nice meeting you. Take care, okay? I hope you and your son work things out."

They shake hands, and Steve barely has time to make it to the bar's restroom before time lurches and sends him back to where he started, less than three feet away from the good suit he'd donned for the ceremony. He begins pulling his clothes back on, thankful that he was somewhere out of the way when it happened, when Kono pokes her head around the corner. Her face creases in a frown.

"Where'd you go?" she comes up to him, helps him with the buttons on his shirt when his hands shake too hard to be effective. "Have you been drinking?" a note of disapproval creeps into her voice.

"Saw my dad. And yeah, a little. Not drunk, though, promise. Was trying to get back here. Didn't want to miss your ceremony." Somewhere, fifteen years in the past, John McGarrett is picking up the phone to call his son, to let him know that he wants him to come home when he's finished his time in juvenile detention. Steve leans down to kiss Kono, wrapping his hands around hers. She tastes of breath mints, and smiles into the kiss.

"You're just in time, in that case."

~*~

_April 20th, 1995: Steve is 18_

"Your father is worried about you," Mamo says to Steve one night, coming by his tent to sit outside in the sand and watch the sun set over the ocean, dappling the waves with orange and red and yellow.

"You could have fooled me." Steve doesn't care if he sounds bitter. His father may have allowed him to come home to Hawaii after sending him and Mary packing like a couple of unwanted house cats, but it was only because he thought he could keep a better eye on his delinquent son if they were under the same roof. "He doesn't care about me, he's just worried I'm going to ruin his reputation as a cop."

Mamo sighs, and Steve feels just a little guilty for taking out his anger on the old man. He's the only one who's shown Steve any measure of decency since he came back. Hell, without Mamo he wouldn't have a place to stay at all, let alone a tent all to himself here on the North shore, where there's nobody to come butt too closely into his business. Mamo set him up with a tent, with a cot to lie on and blankets and a couple of pots and pans, the minimum he'd need to survive out here. He even gave him an introduction to Jonah Kent, who made some of the best custom surf boards on the island, and much to Steve's surprise Jonah agreed to take him on as a sort of apprentice, teach him some of the tricks of the trade so he'd be able to earn a living.

"Kid's got a lot of potential," he'd agreed with Mamo after letting Steve handle some of his tools―with a lot of guidance.

He owes Mamo more than he can ever repay him, is the long and the short of it, so Steve shrugs a shoulder by way of apology. "He thinks I'm a delinquent, Mamo."

"You ever try telling him the truth?"

"Once, when I was a kid," Steve says, with all the conviction of his seventeen years. "He told me I was too old to be making up stories, that liars ended up in jail. I guess he sort of got that right." He still sounds bitter.

"Have you tried telling him now?" Mamo insists gently, and Steve shakes his head.

"There's no point. He's not worried about me, but if you think he is, you can tell him I'm fine, for what it's worth. Mostly thanks to you."

Mamo claps him on the shoulder. "No sweat, kid. Your daddy's a friend of mine, you know. We go way back, way before you were even a twinkle in your mother's eye. If he can't do it, I figure it's up to me to keep an eye on you for him, make sure you stay safe."

"Nowhere is safe."

There's another sigh that serves better than any lecture on the subject of Steve's pessimism. Mamo is the first person aside from Steve's mother who thinks that being able to travel in time isn't the terrible curse that Steve's always believed it to be. For his part, Steve can't figure out how Mamo _doesn't_ see it as a curse. Not being able to stay where and when he is when he needs to, landing naked and freezing and alone in times and places he doesn't know, surrounded by strangers―it should be anyone's idea of a nightmare, but Mamo seems to think that it's all some kind of gift from the gods. Steve once angrily offered to let him have the damned gift, if he thought it was so special, but the old man just smiled gently and told him that gifts from the gods were not something to be lightly transferred.

"You'll see," he'd said. "Someday, you'll find out what it all means, what all this was for. Great joy is not possible without an equal amount of suffering."

"In that case," Steve had muttered, "I'm going to spend some really ecstatic moments in my future."

Mamo had beamed at him as though he'd just handed him the moon on a silver platter. "Exactly. Now isn't that something to look forward to?"

~*~

_August 30th, 2004: Steve is 28, Kono is 20_

Kono is sitting on Steve's bed, dressed in nothing but her panties and one of his shirts. It's hanging mostly open on her, three buttons fastened in front for modesty's sake, and her hair is comically mussed and hanging about her shoulders in a black-brown haze. If Steve were a painter, he'd want to paint a portrait of her just like this, caught in the early morning light.

"What are you thinking?"

He snorts. "Why do women always ask that? Most times, men aren't thinking anything."

She flops onto her stomach, propped up on her forearms, kicks her feet in the air, toes pointed toward the ceiling of his tent, and grins unrepentantly. "You have your thinking expression on. I can always tell if you're thinking or if you've just spaced out."

It's eerie that she knows him this well. "I don't have a 'thinking expression,'" he says defensively.

"You so do. You have no poker face at all, never have. So, tell me what you were thinking. Or have you forgotten already?" she charitably offers him a way out, just so long as he admits that he's already going senile.

"I was thinking that you look really pretty in the mornings," he confesses, already knowing that it will at once please and infuriate her.

She throws a dirty sock at him, quickly snatched up from the floor to be used as a projectile weapon. "I'm not just here for you to stare at, you know."

He doesn't bother ducking, just catches the sock as it flies at his head. "I know. Please tell me I didn't stare creepily at you when you were a kid. I didn't, did I? I'd hate to have to shoot myself in the head for being a pervert."

Kono swings her feet some more, and he can hear the faint whisper of flesh against flesh as her legs rub together. "No, you were always incredibly proper with me. It was infuriating, sometimes. I spent a lot of time trying to seduce you after I turned fifteen, and you stubbornly refused to have sex with me."

Steve feels his cheeks grow warm in spite of himself. "Well, it wouldn't have been right. I'm glad my older self appears to have retained his sense of decency, though."

Kono props her chin on her hands. "I think you were worried that what we were doing was already too weird. You were actually kind of paternal, in a way that my own father never was. You showed me things about the island that my parents aren't interested in: the flora and the fauna, the way everything flows together here. You taught me how to balance on my surfboard―so well that my cousin Ano decided I was worth keeping around, even as little kids go."

"I bet you were a natural, though."

The corner of her mouth quirks up into a smile. "You even helped me with my homework. You have beautiful handwriting."

"So you've said. I never really paid attention to my calligraphy."

"I used to ask you to write things down for me. Lists and poems and quotes, and I used to keep them all in an envelope, until I was about twelve and realised that my mother would inevitably find them during one of her prolonged snooping sessions in my room, so I took them to a bonfire and burned them. By then I'd mostly gotten over my handwriting fetish."

"But not entirely."

"Not entirely, no," she laughs. "But then, I was the only girl my age who had a mysterious dark-haired man who visited from the future and showed her the hidden treasures of the island. I was the star of my very own adventure novel. I watched Dr. Who for a while, but I stopped because the Companions always got to travel with the Doctor, and I always got left behind with people who wouldn't understand what I was talking about."

For a moment Steve can only manage a stricken silence

"I'm sorry," he says, as soon as he's found his voice again, but she's still smiling.

"Don't be. I was a little strange before I met you, and I grew up stranger, but I wouldn't trade it. I can't imagine a life in which I grew up to think only about boys and partying and dating guys who only wanted to get into my pants. I think I was twelve when I decided I was going to marry you."

"Are we going to get married?" Steve is startled, but the thought isn't an unpleasant one.

"I don' t know. You never told me, but you did tell me we'd be together for a long time, and that's good enough for me."

"Must have been frustrating, not knowing all those years."

She shrugs, unconcerned. "I was used to it. I never knew anything else, you know? Although there were lots of times I wished you would tell me what was happening. You visited a lot when you were older, and you were always sad, even though you were happy to see me. There are bad times ahead for you, and I hate not being able to do anything about it."

Steve bites his tongue to keep from asking her exactly when those times are. Knowing the future makes you crazy. He's said it enough times to other people, he knows it's true. "I guess that's why I visited so often. I must have found being with you... pleasant. That's not really the right word."

"I know what you mean. I thought you couldn't control it?"

"I can't, but I tend to revisit the same places, the same events sometimes. Over and over."

"Doesn't sound too bad."

Steve closes his eyes briefly against the image of his mother's car exploding. "Not most of the time, no."

"This is what I was talking about. Why bother dating other guys when I had this enigma who appeared and disappeared like magic throughout my life? Everything else was boring by comparison."

"Kono..." Steve isn't even sure he wants to ask, isn't sure which answer to his question he wants to hear. "Didn't you ever go out with anyone else?"

"Oh, sure. I even slept with a couple of them," she says easily, and Steve's stomach twists nastily. "But it never lasted. I'd be at dinner with them and I'd know it wasn't ever going to amount to anything, and it felt pointless to really pay attention to what they were saying, and no one likes being treated like they're insignificant, you know? It wasn't fair of me to do that to them, to drag things out. I stopped, after a while, and no one ever questioned it anymore."

"You were waiting for the guy who helped you with your math homework?"

"You didn't help all that much. Apparently you suck at algebra."

"I hate theoretical numbers," he mutters darkly.

"So you've said." She's laughing at him, eyes sparkling merrily, and he can't help but grin at her.

"It's not nice to laugh at the mathematically-impaired," he says, getting up so he can nudge her backward onto the bed.

She keeps laughing. "You're not mathematically-impaired and you know it. I've seen you calculate wave trajectories in your head, don't pretend otherwise."

He bites at her lip, but doesn't try to remove the shirt. Truth be told, he kind of likes it on her. "Doesn't mean I have to like it."

"Why are we still talking about math?"

"You started it."

Kono shakes her head. "You started it, but I'll forgive you if you finish what you started."

Steve is more than happy to accommodate her request.

~*~

_February 19th, 2002: Kono is 17, Steve is 3_

Kono is already pacing along the beach when he lands in the water this time, queasy and dizzy enough that it takes some effort for him to wade to shore. She doesn't look at him, just thrusts a bundle of cloth at him. It's all clothing his size―she's gotten better at gauging what will fit him, though he doesn't dare ask her where she gets this stuff―black jeans, a black shirt, black socks and a pair of dark grey running shoes.

"I brought you coffee and a sandwich," she jerks her head toward the far end of the beach, where she's left her picnic basket. It's the same basked she's been bringing for at least six years, maybe more, once she understood how to put basic meals together.

"Okay. I still feel sick, so I'll wait a bit," he says, but she's already walking away from him, sits down on the sand and wraps her arms around her knees.

He sits next to her, lets her hand him a sandwich. She's dressed too warmly for the weather, long sleeves and long pants, and her hair is tied back in a pony tail.

"Kono, are you―?" he stops before finishing his question, because it's obvious she's not all right. It's obvious she's been crying. "What's wrong?"

"If I asked you to beat up a guy for me, would you do it?"

He pauses. She knows that he's had to develop a pretty violent skill set in order to survive when he travels, so it's not surprising that she's not questioning whether he _could_ , but rather whether he _would_. "Yeah, probably," he says. It's true. Somewhere along the way he's gotten rid of a lot of the scruples that would otherwise have gotten him killed or put in jail. He supposes he should be more worried that it's so easy to agree to hurt a person he's never met just because Kono asked him to. "Anyone I know?"

She shakes her head. "I don't think so. Maybe you meet him in the future, but I don't think so. He's older than me. Nearly twenty."

"Did he rape you?"

"He tried. He put something in my drink, but whatever it was, he didn't put enough."

He reaches over to tug down the collar of her long-sleeved shirt, catches sight of a dark bruise on her jaw that hasn't yet begun to heal. There are similar bruises peeking out from the sleeves of her shirt, circling her wrists.

"He cut me," she lifts her shirt, showing a laceration that's been neatly stitched.

Steve traces the outline of the bruises gently with his forefinger, feeling a familiar anger begin to boil just under the surface of his skin. Whoever this guy is, Steve vows to himself, he's going to rip his face right off his skull. He'll rip him limb from limb and then feed the bits to scavengers and dump the rest in the ocean so the sharks will finish him off.

"You want him dead, or you want him mutilated so he'll keep suffering?" he asks quietly, and that makes her laugh even as her eyes fill with tears again. "I'm not actually joking."

"I know. It's nice to know you mean it. Actually, I, uh... I need you to back me up. Would you just come with me?"

"You know where he is?"

"Yes. I just want you there. Please."

"I'll come with you."

He takes a bite of the sandwich, washes it down with coffee. He doesn't feel sick at all anymore.

The guy's name is Tobin. It's a stupid name even by modern standards, and Steve is kind of glad that the guy's parents obviously hate him just as much as everyone else, which is the only possible reason they would have given him such a stupid name. Either that or it's a family name, which is still kind of stupid. Kono has a small leather case that looks a little like an oversized version of those old doctor's bags, but he doesn't ask her what she has in there. He figures she'll tell him when she's good and ready. He has kept so many things from her over the years, she's entitled to her own need-to-know moments. The sun has long since set, but the moon is out and illuminates the guy's front door―he lives in the shittiest-looking apartment building Steve has ever scene, which is saying something―when Kono strides up to it and bangs on it with her fist. Without being told to Steve hangs back, just out of the line of sight from the door, waiting for Kono to give him a sign.

The door opens a crack, then all the way, revealing a tall blond _haole_ , all long muscles and the lean frame of a surfer. He seems surprised, but then, it's not too many victims of attempted rape who return voluntarily to their attacker, Steve supposes.

"Kono! What are you doing here?"

"Tobin," she gives him the smallest of nods. "Can you come out here for a second?"

He steps out gingerly into the building's courtyard. It's filled with garbage and littered with empty beer cans, doubtless the detritus of the college-age dropouts who've all congregated here in order to keep down the cost of rent. It's a pit, even by Steve's standards, and right now Steve lives in a tent on the beach.

"Look, if this is about last night, it was a misunderstanding, okay? I mean, you had a lot to drink, and―" Tobin starts, and that's as far as he gets, because Kono decks him.

It's not the powerhouse kick that's going to become her trademark in the years to come, but Kono's already taken a few classes, and she and Steve have sparred on the beach since she was a little girl, and she knows how to handle herself. Her fist connects solidly with his face, and there's a glint when she moves that tells Steve that somehow, somewhere, his Kono got her hands on some brass knuckles. Tobin's howl of pain is cut short as she drives one bony knee into his crotch, folding him in half. An elbow to the back of the head drives him to his knees, and by then Steve is actually kind of impressed that the guy isn't curled up in a ball on the ground.

He steps up, puts two fingers gently on her arm. "So what do you need me for, exactly?"

"I need you to help me carry him," she says grimly.

It's not enough to break the guy's face and make it a very real possibility that he'll never father children again. Steve's inclination is toward cutting off his dick, because who knows how many other teenagers this asshole has raped in the past? Or will try to rape in the future, for that matter. Kono isn't quite that bloodthirsty, but her solution to the problem is almost as permanent, and Steve has to give her points for creativity. He's only too happy to hold Tobin down while she works, and takes particular pleasure in punching the guy a few more times when he starts struggling to get away.

"Now Tobin," he says calmly, leaning over him and enjoying the look of fear in his eyes. "Is that any way for a gentleman to behave? You roofie a girl and try to rape her, and now you're objecting to her expressing her displeasure? Tsk. Hold still, or I will hurt you a lot more than you are hurting right now, you got me?"

Tobin holds still.

"Good boy."

"Who the fuck are you?"

"I'm nobody you know, Tobin. I'm a friend of Kono's, and if you know what's good for you, when this is over, you will pretend that you and I have never met. With any luck, that will be 99 percent true, because if I ever lay eyes on you again, I will kill you. You get me?"

"Are you _kapu_?"

It's a valid question, but not one Steve is prepared to answer, because Kono doesn't know that about him. Not yet, and she won't need to know that for several years to come. Besides, he's not in the mood to answer any of this guy's questions anyway. "Do us both a favour, Tobin, and shut up."

Tobin shuts up.

They leave him by one of Honolulu's most heavily-trafficked areas. When he begs them not to leave him exposed like that, tears and snot dribbling down his face, Kono kindly offers to tape his dick up for him, and that makes him shut up.

"You know, I think I like your writing better than mine," Steve opines, looking at her handiwork.

She nods, though not because she's agreeing with what he said. "I practised. I wanted to make sure everyone would be able to read it."

Tomorrow morning, when the little boutiques around here open again, everyone who goes by will be treated to the sight of a naked _haole_ duct-taped to a palm tree with the word 'rapist' tattooed prominently across his chest. Steve had been a little surprised when she pulled out the little starter kit from her bag, but he didn't question it. Points for ingenuity, he thought. For good measure, Kono tattooed an 'R' on Tobin's forehead.

"See if any girl lets him buy her a drink now." She spits at his feet.

They walk back to the beach in silence and sit by the shore, watching the waves. Kono is shivering so hard it almost feels like she's convulsing, and so he wraps them both up in the blanket they keep in the watertight box for emergencies and holds her against his chest until the sun comes up, and the pull of time takes him away from her again.

~*~


	3. Life in the Moment

_June 15th, 2004: Steve is 28, Kono is 2_

"You looking for a prime board? You want McGarrett, over there. Look for the tent with the yellow patch, he's probably still there, this time of day."

Steve recognises Mamo's voice and silently curses the old guy under his breath. He's either still drunk or just starting to get hungover, and he's not sure which one it is, and either way that means it's way too early in the morning to deal with what's likely to be some idiot who wouldn't know a good surf board if it cracked his skull open. Still, he owes Mamo more than he'll ever be able to repay in three lifetimes, and even if it doesn't cost much to live out here in the tent city, he still needs to be able to feed and clothe himself, and the only way to do that is to sell surfboards in the odd times that he's not being jerked around from decade to decade. He crawls out from under his blankets, runs his fingers through his hair in a half-hearted attempt to make it look a little less like he's trying to sleep off a bender, shoves back the flap of his tent and finds himself squinting painfully at what might very well be the most beautiful woman he has ever seen in his whole life.

The woman is younger than he, a saffron sarong wrapped about her hips, her yellow bikini top outlined starkly against naturally dark skin made even darker by days spend in the sun. Her hair is loose about her shoulders, wind-swept and slightly briny from the ocean, and it's falling forward into her face now as she bends forward to drop a very broken surfboard onto the sand at his feet.

"Some _lolo_ smashed my board," she starts, not looking at him just yet. "Mamo tells me that you're the best―oh." Her face lights up as though someone has told her that it's Christmas and her birthday all rolled into one, and Steve finds himself blushing hotly under her stare. "Oh my God, it's you!"

He can do nothing but stare at her, because obviously this vision before him has met him before, seems to know him intimately, going by the way she throws her arms around him and hugs him so hard she threatens to cut off all his air, murmuring his name reverently under her breath. What little was left this morning of his rational thought processes has long since vanished, and when she pulls away he finds himself still gawking, as though he's a teenager meeting his favourite movie star for the first time, utterly tongue-tied. She's laughing now, brown eyes dancing with merriment.

"You told me this would happen."

He takes a breath, tries to marshall his thoughts.

"Do I know you?"

"Not yet," she says. "But I've known you my entire life."

He's met her before, then. Or, rather, sometimes in the future he travels back to meet her, and the whole thing is already starting to make his head hurt. "I'm sorry, I know this is awkward and weird, but―you understand why I've... why I don't―"

"Oh, yes. I mean, I know why," she hastens to reassure him, her tone dropping to conspiratorial levels. She's still grinning like a kid at Christmas. "God, you look so much younger than I remember. But then, you've always been older when you visited, and I suppose when I was really little you might have been younger but all grown-ups look impossibly old when you're a kid. Oh, Steve, I'm confusing the hell out of you, aren't I?" she says, looking unrepentant and so beautiful that he's tempted to pinch himself to make sure he's not really dreaming.

He brings up a hand to rub at the back of his neck. "No more than I usually am, I guess. This is going to sound awful, but... I don't even know your name."

"My name is Kono Kalakaua. Today is my twenty-first birthday, and I want you to take me to dinner."

~*~

 _June 15th, 2004: Steve is 28, Kono is 20_

It's the strangest thing. She's staring at Steve, younger than she's ever seen him and looking tired and hungover but wearing clothes he chose himself, and he's staring back at her without a trace of recognition in his eyes. She's looking at the man with whom she's been in love for nearly six years now, and he doesn't have a clue who she is, though she knows with the certainty of one who's already lived through some of it, that this will change soon enough.

She invites him to dinner, sets a date at Lucy's and hopes she hasn't frightened him away. This man is not the Steve she knows, though he will be someday. This man, though he's older than she is―28, he'd answered when she remembered to ask―is young and unsure, like a skittish horse that needs gentle but firm handling.

"Be gentle, Kono," he begged her jokingly the last time she saw him. "Be gentle with me, because I won't have the first notion of how to handle you."

It had been a joke, but she's beginning to think there might be some truth to it, too. There was too much, too fast, and she thinks that she may have frightened him. She perches carefully on her chair in the courtyard of Lucy's Grill 'n' Bar and stares at the people around her who are already well into their second drink of the evening and just starting to get a little louder as the alcohol hits their systems. Inside the noise is already growing to levels that will make conversation impossible, which is why she chose a table in the courtyard and even deliberately chose one that's a little out of the way, because she's pretty sure that anything too close to the bustle and press of people will make Steve freak out and flee for the hills. The thought makes her smile, even though it's already five minutes past the time that he said that he would meet her here. He seemed nervous this morning, and she knows by now that stress is one of his worst triggers, that might even now be visiting her younger self in their secluded little cove, or be shivering naked in someone's back yard five years in the future. He could be anywhere but here, and she wipes suddenly sweaty palms on the hem of the cream-coloured dress she wore tonight to impress him.

She's about to give up and try again another day when he appears in the doorway to the courtyard, dressed in dark jeans and a blue shirt and sky blue tie, hair washed and combed, completely clean-shaven. He cleans up nice, is her first thought. It's rare that she sees him at his best: usually he lands right in the water by the beach, and coughing up seawater is not exactly conducive to looking calm and composed. He looks nervous now, scanning the area anxiously, looking for her. He has a bouquet of flowers clutched so tightly that the knuckles of his left hand are slowly turning white. He relaxes a fraction when he sees her, threads his way through the tables and stops by her chair.

"These are for you," he says, thrusting the bouquet at her, and she feels her face break into a beaming smile.

"You've never brought me flowers before."

He clears his throat. "I, uh, wouldn't have been able to, before. I mean, I can't take―"

"―Anything with you," she completes his sentence, nodding her head. "I know. I never expected flowers, either, or anything else. It's just a lovely surprise. They're beautiful," she adds, tracing a finger over the delicate petals of an orchid. There are bougainvilleas in the bouquet as well, and a scattering of pincushion proteas. "Thank you."

He slides into the chair across from her, immediately reaches for the water glass and drains it. There are beads of sweat forming along his hairline, and she takes pity on him.

"You don't have to be nervous," she says, leaning across the table and placing a hand on his wrist. She presses against his pulse point with her thumb, feels his heart beat racing just beneath the skin.

"No, it's not―it's just... here you are," he says, smiling a little incredulously, "and―and I can tell that you're going to be this huge part of my future, and you're probably going to be the best thing that's ever happened to me, but I don't know anything about you. I want you to tell me everything."

She doesn't know where to begin, but she's saved by the arrival of the waiter to take their orders. By the time their drinks have arrived they're both grinning at each other now, like they can't help it, and she wants to bury her face in the bouquet of flowers while simultaneously climbing right into his lap and holding onto him and never letting go now that she's got him back. She settles instead for pulling out her little red notebook and sliding it across the table.

"I brought this for you. It's all the times we met before today."

He opens the notebook with a look of reverence on his face that might not be misplaced if she's just handed him the first ever copy of the Gutenberg Bible. "This is my handwriting."

"You wrote it. The first time we met at our beach you asked me to bring this to you the next time, and you wrote down all the times that you were going to come."

"Our beach?" Steve asks, tracing a finger down along each page, registering each date as though it's the best news he's had in his entire life.

Kono finds herself blushing a bit. "Oh, it's not really our beach. It's just what I called it in my head when I was little and it kind of stuck. It's just this tiny little inlet, a strip of beach that's surrounded by trees near my parents' house in La'ie Point. I used to go there when my older cousins ditched me to go surfing, and one day I was playing on the beach and suddenly there you were, in the water."

"Naked as a jaybird and probably puking."

"Naked, yeah, but that first time you weren't sick. I loaned you my beach towel and you told me you were from the future, and we talked for a few minutes and then you disappeared like something from a movie. It felt like magic to me," she confesses. "After that, I sort of took it for granted that this magical guy was going to appear and disappear on the beach near my house all the time."

"So what did we do together?" he seems fascinated. It occurs to her for the first time that he may never have met anyone from his future before, and she's tempted to refuse to say anything just so he'll have a taste of the frustration she's experienced all these years. He's looking at her with this strange mixture of hope and terror, though, and she doesn't have the heart to deny him. Not when she's waited to talk to him properly for so many years.

She tilts her head in a noncommittal gesture. "Lots of things. It depended a lot on my age―I think you were really worried about warping me," she tells him, enjoying the way he ducks his head and blushes hard. "The first day we really spent any time together you taught me all about beach combing, and we found a tiger cowrie, which I still keep in a jar on my desk at home. You helped me with my homework and we went swimming a lot, and... sometimes you told me about yourself. Bit and pieces of how the time travel worked, or didn't work. You visited a lot toward the end of the 2000s," she says, and she knows her tone is wistful, in spite of her attempt to keep it neutral.

He looks a little stricken. "I'm sorry. It's not fair to put that on a kid."

"Don't be sorry. I was just sad because I could tell something was bothering you and I couldn't fix it, return the favour, you know? You taught me so much... When I was eight I brought my first surf board to you because I couldn't figure out how to balance properly, and you taught me everything you knew."

He looks at her appraisingly. "I bet you got better than me in no time."

"You bet. I was all set to become a pro," she tries not to let herself be bitter. She's long since moved past that disappointment, or so she hopes, "but I blew out my knee when I was eighteen. It was a stupid accident―some newbie dropped in on my wave and rammed his board right into my knee. Ripped all the ligaments and tendons and tore my ACL all to shreds."

"I'm so sorry." His hand is on hers now, surprisingly warm, but the calluses are as familiar to her now as they were three years ago. Now that she knows what he does for a living, she understands why they're there.

"It's okay. It's been three years, and I'm going to be a cop now, like my cousin Chin. I got accepted to the Academy, and I start in a few weeks. Tonight is a double celebration."

He starts at that, eyes growing wide. "Oh my God. You must have had other plans tonight? I forgot that―I mean, I didn't know you―"

"Steve, relax," she laughs. "I cancelled with my friends. We'll make it up some other time. I know it's hard for you to believe, but I've been looking forward to this day for nearly three years, and I wasn't about to let anything get in the way of that."

~*~

 _June 15th, 2004: Steve is 28, Kono is 20_

"So I was thinking we should take this somewhere more private," Kono says, watching him hungrily over the lip of her glass. 

For the first time in his life Steve finds himself hesitating as a beautiful woman tries to invite herself over to spend the night. This isn't like any of the other random hook-ups he's had over the years, and he hasn't had nearly enough to drink to quiet the butterflies in his stomach. He wipes suddenly clammy hands on his pants, clears his throat.

"Um, I'm not exactly... used to having company at my place."

She grins wickedly. "I live with my very traditional parents in my old bedroom with nothing but a single bed and all my childhood toys. I've seen your tent, and I don't care about that, if that's what you're worried about."

They end up walking slowly along the beach, stop after about three minutes so that Kono can kick off her entirely impractical shoes and walk barefoot in the sand. He makes her wait outside his tent for a minute so he can at least make the bed―if you can call an air mattress with semi-clean sheets sitting atop a makeshift wooden frame a bed―and shove his dirty laundry into the bag it should have been in to begin with. When he pokes his head out through the tent flaps she's grinning at him, and he blushes.

"You're a lot less self-possessed," she tells him as though the very notion fills her with glee. She takes him by the shirt and pushes him backward, right back into his tent. The backs of his calves hit the bed and he falls back awkwardly, but she doesn't miss a beat, clambering onto his lap and straddling his thighs. Her legs are well-muscled, thighs pressing warmly against him, and if he wasn't hard before he definitely is now, dick straining against the zipper of his cargoes.

"Poor Steve," she laughs, licking her way up his neck.

"Poor Steve?" He's the luckiest man in the universe, if only he could get his brain kick-started again. He's overwhelmed, but he's never been this happy in his life to be entirely out of his depth, not if it means he gets to have this bright, beautiful woman all over him as though he's the only thing she's ever wanted in her entire life.

"I keep dropping all these anvils on you, you must feel like Wile E. Coyote," she moves around to nibble at his bottom lip, "but you have no idea, no idea how long I've been waiting for this. I've been waiting for years to know more than your first name and the fact that you have a weirdly profound knowledge of Hawaiian seashells and that your handwriting is really nice.

"You like my handwriting?" It's really hard to focus with her thrusting her hips against him.

"Men's handwriting is notoriously ugly, whereas yours isn't. I've always wanted to know your last name, Mr. McGarrett, and what you do for a living and where you live."

He's known her for all of eight hours, but the first kiss is familiar and easy, one born of long acquaintance. "Now you know," he says a little breathlessly. "Disappointed?"

"Never. It's not what I expected, but then if you'd turned out to be a genie who lived inside a lamp I wouldn't have been altogether surprised, either."

"Incredible cosmic power, itty-bitty living space," he agrees, biting back a groan as her hands move down to undo the top button of his pants, and she laughs. She seems to find everything he says a source of amusement, which he doesn't know to take as an insult or a compliment. "It's just―it's easier, living here."

"You don't have to explain why you disappear sometimes, or why sometimes you end up naked and far away from your tent?" she guesses shrewdly, tugging at his shirt until he lifts his arms, then runs both her hands down his stomach, tracing the outline of his abs. "Fuck, you're even hotter now than three years ago, and I didn't think that was possible. You're so... young."

"So I take it you don't want to take this slowly? You know, build the anticipation, or..." he trails off.

"Fuck, no. You may have just met me, but I've been anticipating this for years, and if you don't do something about that right this minute, I may just have to hurt you, and not in a way you'd enjoy."

Steve thanks every god he can think of that the dress she's wearing isn't complicated, just a couple of clasps in the back that he's careful not to catch in her hair. She lets him slide the straps over her shoulders and the whole garment slithers to the ground, revealing a cream-coloured bra and panties that he makes very short work of before pulling her onto the bed and rolling them both over until he's on top of her. There's nothing submissive in her posture, though―everything about her suggests that she knows exactly what she's doing, and more importantly that she knows everything he's doing, too, and the thought is enough to make his dick throb almost painfully. If she keeps on that way, it's going to be a damned short night, he thinks.

"Stop thinking," she props herself up onto her elbows, spreading her knees a little bit in obvious invitation, and that takes away the last of his hesitation.

He captures her mouth in a kiss, licking away the remnants of salt from her drink, moves to kiss and lick and nip his way down her neck and toward her breasts, cupping one of them in his hand and enjoying the way her nipple hardens to a bud under the touch of his fingers. She's incredibly responsive, already shifting under him, breath coming faster, and she digs her fingers into his hair and pushes, urging him lower.

"This what you want?" he asks, moving lower, mouthing at her stomach, and she curses under her breath. She tastes of salt and apricot soap, and she gasps and swears a lot more loudly when he applies his tongue to her clit.

"Fuck! God, you're good at this..."

He's not exactly in a position to say anything back, so he contents himself with letting his actions speak more loudly than he could anyway, licking and sucking until she's writhing on the bed, pulling on his hair so hard it's almost painful, and his mouth and chin are sopping wet with her juices and his own saliva. Her skin is buttery soft under his fingertips, yielding under his grip, and he worries that he might bruise her, but she's too focused on his mouth to appear to care much about that. He speeds up a little when the movement of her hips becomes just a little more urgent, a little more desperate, can feel the change in her breathing when he takes one hand off her thigh in order to add a finger, then two, to what he's doing. She comes with a hoarse yell, head thrown back against the mattress, hips coming off the bed entirely, and a moment later she's pulling at him insistently until he moves up again to kiss her. She moans happily into the kiss, apparently enjoying her own taste in his mouth, and Steve is pretty sure he's never heard anything hotter in his life.

"Fuck me," she says in his ear, and promptly shoves him onto his back. She's still so wet that she's dripping, thighs sticky against his stomach, and for what feels like a really long time he can't marshal his thoughts enough to do anything except lie there and stare at her. "C'mon, where are your condoms?"

They're in a box right next to his bed, for which he has never been more grateful in his entire life. She tears open the packet with her teeth, uses her mouth to roll it down over his cock with an ease that speaks of long practice, and for a split-second he's incredibly, overwhelmingly jealous of all the men who've had the privilege of knowing Kono before him, right up until she looks up at him with half-lidded eyes that are so dark they look like pools of ink in her face, and licks her lips.

"Enjoying the fruits of your teachings?" she asks teasingly, and he realises with a rush that makes him feel positively dizzy that this, this is his, that there isn't anyone else of consequence, that he's always had her, even when he didn't know that he did, and then all logical thought is driven right from his mind as she slides down smoothly on his dick without a moment's hesitation.

It's almost too much, and Steve has to distract himself by letting his hands travel up her body, fingers pressing against her ribcage, exploring her breasts, the jut of her hipbones as she moves in deep, even thrusts against him, the delicate outline of her clavicles. There is nothing about her that isn't beautiful, not even the litany of curses and encouragement and barely-coherent praise that spills from her lips. She's braced against his shoulders with both hands, urging him on as though they're running behind schedule for something important until she throws her head back and lets him take over, clamping her muscles tightly around his dick and shuddering her way through another orgasm. Steve manages to hang on just long enough, follows her over the edge seconds later, only to have her collapse on top of him with a breathless, satisfied-sounding laugh.

"Wow," he manages after a moment, trying to disentangle himself from her so he can at least dispose of the condom in the small plastic bag he keeps for garbage.

"Not bad," she agrees, propping her head up on one hand. He's almost sure she's teasing.

"Count yourself lucky. I'm amazed I didn't come in about thirty seconds," he lies back down on the bed next to her, slides a hand up over her hip and lets it rest at her waist.

"I'll take that as a compliment," she curls in closer, pressing an ear to his chest.

He's not used to having anyone stay in his tent, but she obviously has no intention of leaving, and he finds that he doesn't really want to let her go, either. He pulls the sheet up to cover them both, lies back down with his head pillowed on his arm, watches the rise and fall of her breasts as her breath evens out into sleep almost immediately. There are still a thousand questions he wants to ask, but they'll keep until morning, he tells himself.

After all, now he has the rest of their lives together to look forward to.

~*~

 _September 15th, 2004: Steve is 29, Kono is 20_

"You sure this is a good idea?" Steve asks, probably for the eleventh or twelfth time this evening.

He's fidgeting, sweating in his second-best shirt. He spent about an hour trying to figure out if he should dress up or dress down, if he should go against everything the island stands for and maybe wear a tie, or if that would just get him laughed at. He settled on not wearing a tie, mostly because he doesn't own one and doesn't know from whom he might borrow one that doesn't look ridiculous.

"Relax," Kono tells him. "My friends want to meet you. You look fine, stop pulling at your collar like you're suffocating. Your shirt isn't even done up all the way."

He pulls at the cuffs, tries not to fidget as she drives easily along the Honolulu streets, one hand draped casually over the steering wheel. "What if they hate me?"

"They won't hate you."

"I'm not good with people, Kono. I make surfboards for a living."

"So long as you don't sell drugs, you're fine. My cousin Chin would have to arrest you otherwise."

He shakes his head tugs at his cuffs again, feels his stomach lurch a little bit when she takes a corner a little too fast for his liking. "Oh, God," he mutters, softly enough that he hopes she hasn't heard him, but no such luck.

"I can't believe you're freaking out about meeting my friends. You'll like Chin and Malia, don't be a baby, and the rest don't matter at all. It's just that they've all been dying to meet you for, like, a month and more. They all want to meet the guy I've been waiting for all my life."

His head jerks up at that. "What? You didn't―"

"No, I didn't tell them," she assures him. "They're just not idiots."

As it turns out, she's right. Steve gets introduced to a roomful of people, all of whom seem to know Kono to varying degrees. Most of them are her friends from the Academy, but a handful are introduced as cousins and old friends from school. Utterly overwhelmed by the sudden influx of people, Steve backs up hurriedly until he hits a wall, plasters what he hopes is a sincere-looking smile on his face while he racks his brain in order to make small talk with all these people he doesn't know. Eventually he manages to escape onto a balcony while Kono moves easily from person to person, chatting and smiling and generally looking like a vision in a blue and white dress. He licks his lips, tries to take some deep breaths so he doesn't accidentally vanish and leave all his clothes behind, because that would just be the perfect way to meet everybody Kono knows for the first time.

The glass door behind him slides open, and a slim man only an inch or two shorter than him slips out to stand on the balcony next to him. He's dressed in well-fitted jeans and a black shirt with the sleeves rolled up, and exudes an air of quiet confidence. Steve likes him already. "Air's fresher out here, isn't it?" he asks, and Steve nods.

"Chin Ho Kelly. You probably don't remember after having all those names thrown at you in there."

Steve knows the name, though. "Kukui High School. You held all the football records there."

Chin is obviously pleased to be recognised. "I'm also Kono's cousin. As I recall, you were poised to beat all of my old records," he reaches out to shake Steve's hand. "I used to go watch all your games with your father. He was my training officer, you know."

"I didn't know that, no. I was still a kid, and he didn't talk much about work back then." Not ever, he amends silently, but Chin doesn't need to know that. That's between Steve and his father, and no one else.

"Yeah. I'm sorry about your mother. It was a bad time, a terrible thing," Chin says, and Steve has seen enough lies in his life to know that the sympathy in his eyes is genuine. He shrugs, uncomfortable.

"It was a long time ago, now."

"I suppose it was. How do you know Kono, anyway?"

It's a loaded question. Steve doesn't know Kono, not really, but he will, and they're going to know each other all their lives. He drums his fingers on the balcony railing, stares out into the night. Behind them, the music inside begins to swell to some dance beat or other, and the smell of roasting pork wafts through the open door.

"I make surf boards. Custom designs. Hers got broken a couple of months ago, and someone directed her to me. I made her a new one," he says simply, as though he and Kono hadn't spent the night together long before he considered making her a new surfboard. "She's a great surfer."

Chin nods as though that makes perfect sense. "She was on the pro circuit for a couple of years, you know, before she blew out her knee. I thought you might have met her then, if you were in the business already. She started young, but she had a real promising career."

"No, I was... well, I only work as much as I have to to keep body and soul together," Steve confesses hesitantly, unsure what Chin will make of that.

It makes him sound like a ne'er-do-well, the type of man Kono would do well to steer away from. The kind of guy who spends all day surfing or doing drugs and only makes a board every so often just so he won't starve to death. There's no explaining, of course, that he can't manage to make more than a few boards at any given time because he never knows for how long he'll be gone, or when he'll be gone at all. He glances up to find Chin looking at him speculatively, but obviously reserving judgement for now.

"Well, whatever it is, Kono is clearly crazy about you. I will take this moment to point out that I do have a weapon that I am entirely licensed to use."

"Is this the hurt-her-and-I'll-kill-you speech?"

Chin smiles thinly. "Actually, it's the hurt-her-and-I'll-wait-until-she-maims-you-before-I-kill-you speech. Kono can take care of herself, but that doesn't mean I won't be there to stomp on your remains when she's done with you."

"Got it," Steve nods. He doesn't know that in six hours everything between him and Chin is going to change. Right now it seems easy enough to promise that he won't deliberately try to hurt Kono, which he figures is the best anyone can do. 

Chin is staring at him, though. "Are you sure we've never met? I could have sworn I've seen you before somewhere."

It's possible, of course. Chin is a police officer, and Steve has landed on the wrong side of the law often enough. More often than not he's been naked and puking, and in one memorable case he had been already moving wrong and fell over when he landed, skinning both knees and his palms on the carpet of some apartment hallway and cracking his skull sharply against the wall. He doesn't think Chin was the arresting officer in any of those cases, but some of his memories are already a little hazy because he's usually too desperate to get away from whomever's trying to get their hands on him.

"I don't think so."

Chin shrugs. "Whatever you say, _brah_. It was just a feeling. Sometimes they're wrong, you know?"

"I guess. I get the feeling―forgive the pun―that your feelings are usually pretty accurate."

"Usually they are, but I can't have a 100 percent success rate. You want a drink? I was going to get myself a Longboard, and you look like you could use one, to be honest."

Steve manages a wry grin. "I'm not really all that good with large groups of people."

"I figured. Tell you what―come back inside, and Kono and I will run interference a little for you, make sure no one pins you in a corner and grills you for every single detail about your life. Sound good?"

The very idea of going back in among the press of people is enough to make Steve's stomach twist itself into knots, but he's pretty sure it would be really rude to refuse to mingle at all. "Yeah, okay."

To his relief, Kono spots him the moment he steps back through the door, and moves over to link their arms together. "You freaking out?" she asks him, a smile playing on her lips. 

He swallows, throat suddenly dry again. "A little," he admits, and she gives him a reassuring nudge in the ribs.

"It's kind of fun seeing you like this. In the past you were always so self-possessed."

"It's all an act," he assures her. "I don't like people. I just like you."

"Aw, Steve, that's so sweet," she gets up on her tiptoes to kiss him, quickly and chastely, on the lips. "Bear with me. We'll be out of here soon, and I promise that I will make every minute you spent here worth your while." Her grin is lascivious, and he can't help but smile back.

"In that case, I will suffer very stoically for you."

~*~

 _September 16th, 2004: Steve is 30_

The second time Chin meets Steve is not the second time Steve meets Chin, though it's been not quite eight hours after they both met for the first time. Steve doesn't usually bother trying to explain how this works to most people because their eyes glaze over or they get this tense, pained look on their faces, and most of the time everyone just ends up frustrated.

This time Steve is in the middle of delivering the most efficiently brutal beating he can manage to a very large guy who's only slightly less muscular than he, whose name he doesn't even know. This is survival, though, and if that means this guy needs to go down with his skull caved in, well, Steve is okay with that. Especially since the guy thought Steve would be an easy target for violence. It'll serve him right, teach him not to judge a book by its cover. Steve has him down on the ground now, trying in vain to curl into a ball while Steve aims kick after vicious kick right at the guy's kidneys. When he hears Chin voice calling out he doesn't stop, but instead tries to stomp on the guy's neck, missing by a bare inch or so.

"Hey, Steve, hold up!"

Chin is running down the alleyway toward him, though he's not going all-out. Steve knows just how fast Chin can run when he's properly motivated, and right now he's not even close to his top speed. Steve supposes he should be glad that Chin is off-duty and had drinks with him and Kono at that party earlier this evening, because that means he doesn't have his service weapon with him. He's fairly sure Chin wouldn't shoot him, but he's not really willing to test his luck right now. After all, right now he and Chin aren't friends yet. Chin comes to an abrupt halt maybe two feet away, and shoves his hands into his pockets.

"Howzit, _brah_?" he asks conversationally, his tone deceptively nonchalant. "You want to tell me what you think you're doing, here?"

Steve aims another kick at the guy's head. "What I think I'm doing is beating the living crap out of this homophobic asshole who thought that it would be a good idea to get his buddies to help beat me up first."

Chin catches his arm and hauls on it, pulling Steve back. For all that he's a little shorter than Steve he's solidly built, all compact muscle, and he's a lot stronger than most people give him credit for. Steve knows this because he's known Chin for five years now, and considers him one of his best friends. Chin doesn't know that, however.

"All right, _brah_ , I think he's done. You," he says to the guy, who's still lying prone on the ground and moaning and sobbing a little under his breath. "You're going to do us both a favour and make yourself scarce, yeah?"

"The guy's a fucking loon!" is the only response he gets. Chin puts out an arm to keep Steve from lunging at him again, then shrugs.

"Here's the thing. It sounds to me like you are a righteous asshole, yeah? Beating up on homosexuals makes you feel like a big man?" he asks, clearly not requiring an answer. "Your story isn't going to go over so well at HPD, my friend. You try telling them you and your friends tried to beat up a guy just because he was dressed funny, and that he kicked your ass for it and now you want to press charges? See if you don't end up in lock-up overnight after a story like that. So, like I said, you do us both a favour, and you get the fuck out of here and don't come back!"

The guy scrambles to his feet, left eye already swelling shut from where he caught Steve's elbow with it early in the game, and heeds Chin's advice. Steve is moving away by then, gently extricating his arm from Chin's grasp, but if Steve thought he was going to get away without being questioned, then he was labouring under a delusion. Chin is nobody's fool, and after only a couple of years on the force he's one of HPD's rising stars. Besides, Steve already knows how this night is supposed to play out, more or less, even though he's only heard the story second-hand.

"Hey, McGarrett, where do you think you're going?" Chin catches up to him in two graceful steps. "You know, I'm not usually one to judge the way anyone chooses to dress, but..." he gestures to Steve's outfit. "Forgive me, this isn't really, you, _brah_. Besides, I can't help but note this isn't at all what you were wearing earlier tonight. You want to tell me what's going on, here?"

Steve has been doing this long enough that he's able to figure out just when it is. Six hours ago, his 29-year-old self was meeting Chin for the first time, which is going to make this whole situation a whole lot more awkward if he sticks around. So he keeps walking, and barely spares a glance at the too-small jeans shorts and cut off tank top he's wearing. It's off-white, now with added bloodstains. "It's the only set of clothes I could get my hands on in this neighbourhood."

"What happened to the other ones? Whoa, hey," Chin exclaims, his composure finally rattled as Steve tests the handle of the back door to a shop and lets himself in with one good shove that serves to break the flimsy lock keeping him out. "You're adding breaking and entering to tonight's list of aggravated assault and what looks like clothing theft? You do realise I'm a cop, right? I should be arresting you on the spot. Or at least I should be making sure you never come near my cousin again."

Steve looks back over his shoulder in time to see Chin standing with his arms folded across his chest, feet spread a little, clearly waiting for Steve to give him a reason to break him apart with his bare hands. He grins. "Take it easy, Chin."

Chin purses his lips. "I'll be more inclined to take it easy if you can come up with a really good explanation for this. You have one minute, after which I will subdue you, cuff you with whatever materials I can find to hand, and dragging you down to headquarters for questioning. You feel me, _brah_?"

"Yeah, okay, I got it," Steve tells him, raising both hands in a gesture of surrender. "Here's the deal. I'm going to explain this to you because one day we're going to be really good friends and we're going to look back on this and laugh. I'm a time traveler. I'm not the same version of me you met earlier today, I'm actually about five years older than that. If you look closer, you'll be able to tell that my hair is longer and that I have a scar I didn't have before on my arm. You won't believe me right now, but you will in a couple of minutes. Hang on," he holds up a hand to forestall whatever Chin's about to say. "I swear, it's true. But when I travel I can't take anything with me, including clothes. So I have to find whatever I can, and most of the time that means stealing clothes and breaking into places so I'm not caught outside stark naked. And sometimes it means that I attract unwanted attention, the cops or maybe some asshole who thinks it's his God-given right to beat on faggots because they don't dress the way he likes. So yeah, I've done almost everything in the books: I've stolen, I've broken into places, I've been guilty of public indecency more times than I can count, and I've mugged people on occasion to take some of their clothes and enough money to get me through the time I'm stuck until I can get back. Clear enough for you?"

Chin doesn't move, arms still folded over his chest. "You realise how crazy that sounds, right?"

"Every single word. But you should ask Kono, she'll tell you I'm not crazy."

"Okay, no. You're in the middle of committing a felony, and what you're doing is talking delusion, or maybe even psychosis. You on any kind of medication, Steve? Anything I should let the guys down at HQ know about? Because I'm going to take you in, now. You're not going anywhere near Kono again, either. She doesn't need this sort of bullshit in her life. Plenty of good, stable men who are actually worth her time out there."

Steve shakes his head. "You won't take me in."

"How's that, my friend?"

Steve grins at him. "Because I'm going now. I'll see you later, Chin."

And he's gone.

~*~

 _September 16th, 2004: Steve is 29, Kono is 20_

If she didn't know any better, Kono would say she was an idiot for standing outside on her parents' lanai, waiting for her cousin to come find her. But Steve told her this would happen, a long time ago, when she was younger and he was older, and she'd rather not have this conversation inside her parents' house. She wonders just how long it's going to take, and is in the process of checking her watch for the fourth time when she hears the tell-tale sound of Chin's motorcycle coming up along the street. He dismounts, comes striding up the path, and stops short when he sees her standing there.

"What are you doing here?" he asks, obviously discomfitted.

She grins. "I live here, Chin. Had you forgotten? Or were you here to see Mama and Papa at five o'clock in the morning?"

He's clearly rattled, and she shouldn't be so amused, but she resigns herself to the thought that she's probably a really bad person at heart. "No," he sputters. "I mean, I thought you'd be inside. Asleep," he adds, almost accusingly, as though well-bred young women shouldn't be up outside waiting for their cousins at all hours of the night. "I just saw Steve."

She nods. "Only Steve just dropped me off here about two hours ago and then went home."

"Right. He beat a guy half to death before I stopped him."

She can't find it in herself to be surprised. "Did he say why?"

Chin looks a little uncomfortable. "It sounds like the guy brought it on himself. Steve was, I don't know, dressed like he'd fit in really well at Fusion Waikiki." Kono snorts at that in spite of herself―poor Steve―before Chin completes his sentence, "and this guy and a bunch of his friends decided to try to rough him up. And then he gives me this whole story about time travel, and tells me that you already know all about it, and just when I'm about to improvise some handcuffs because your boyfriend is clearly out of his mind―"

"He disappeared into thin air," Kono finishes for him. "Yeah, he does that." Chin just stands there looking stunned, and so she takes pity on him. "Come in, I'll make some tea. I'll explain everything."

~*~

 _June 24th, 2005: Steve is 34 and 29, Kono is 21_

Kono is in the middle of a kata, silhouetted starkly against the rising sun on the beach. Steve loves to watch her in the early morning when it's just the two of them like this. He's never practiced a martial art in his life―his fights are always quick and rough and dirty, and have nothing of the simple elegance of what Kono is doing now. It doesn't make her any less deadly, in fact he's pretty sure that in a fair fight she could easily take him out these days. He's entirely self-taught, relies on his size, his strength and mostly his speed to get him out of any trouble he gets himself into these days, and when he joined the _kapu_ ―another necessary step in ensuring his own survival―they encouraged him to fight to win, to get in and get out fast and with as few casualties as possible on their side. So there's no finesse to what he does, nothing like the precision and skill that's present in every one of Kono's movements. It's a joy to watch her, and he takes advantage of every moment.

She finishes her kata, pauses before beginning the next in order to turn her head and look at him with a quiet smile. Sometimes there are other people on the beach at this hour, early risers or people who just haven't gone to bed yet, but today they're entirely alone with just the murmur of the ocean for company. Steve closes his eyes for a moment, taking in the tang of the salt air, the feel of the breeze on his face, the sand damp and soft under the soles of his bare feet.

He's startled out of his reverie by a sharp cry from Kono. His eyes snap open in time to see her stumble backward in order to avoid stepping on the prone form of a naked man. He scrambles to his feet, sprints over to the edge of the water where the waves are just beginning to creep up along the beach. In a few hours the tide will have come in several more feet, covering all this sand in water, but he's not thinking about that.

It's himself, of course, but older, his face pulled into a rictus of pain. He's curled in the foetal position, both hands clasped over his stomach, blood welling through his fingers. Steve kneels as close to him as he can, puts a hand on his shoulder.

"Get some cloths," he tells Kono, who nods and runs back the way he came, kicking up a spray of sand in her wake. "Hey, Steve," he says gently. "You with me?"

The older version of himself moans quietly, but he uncurls a little and turns his head up, forcing his eyes open. "Steve..." he rasps.

"Yeah, it's me. We're going to take care of you, okay? I just need you to stick with me, here." He pulls at Steve's hand, has to swallow convulsively in order not to throw up when he sees the bullet wound concealed beneath Steve's fingers. "Stay with me, Steve."

Steve shakes his head. "Hurts," he says hoarsely. "Don't worry. It's a good memory. Not staying."

He can hear Kono running back toward them, and he bites his lip. "Okay. Okay, Steve. You just hang onto my hand, okay? I got you, I won't let go."

He laces their fingers together as Steve's eyes close again. There's a lot of blood, blood flowing from the bullet wound in his gut, blood bubbling at the corners of his mouth, pink and frothy. Kono is already folding clean gauze from her first aid kit together, presses them to the injury, but she shoots him a worried look, and he shakes his head.

"Steve," Kono strokes the cheek of the man lying on the ground, the one she doesn't know yet. "Steve, I need you to stay with me, okay?"

Steve opens his eyes again, but they're glazed with pain, not focusing on her at all. "Kono?" His tone is filled with warmth, with love. Steve wonders if that's how he sounds every time he says her name. He watches himself grope for Kono's hand with his free one. "Don't cry, it's okay," the other Steve says, though Kono is dry-eyed. Steve wonders just what the hell is happening in the future, but he knows better than to ask.

"Shh," Kono hushes him. "We're here, Steve, it's okay. Do you want a hospital?"

Steve shakes his head. "I'm sorry. Going now..." he murmurs, and then he's gone again.

Kono gets up a moment later. "I'm going to go change," she says softly, and she can't meet his eyes at all.

Steve finds he can't blame her in the slightest.

~*~

 _August 15th, 2006: Kono is 22, Steve is 29_

"Kono, your boyfriend is here!" Her roommate is rapping on the door.

Jennifer is the latest in a series of roommates, each more disastrous than the last. It makes Kono almost wish she were back home with her parents. Almost, but not quite. At least her roommates don't glare at Steve every time he dares to darken their doorsteps. It's a little difficult to explain to them that, actually, her boyfriend suffers from this condition that no one else in the world seems to have, and that's the reason he lives in a tent and can't hold down a steady job and doesn't have a driver's license.

"What about that nice boy you dated a few years ago?" her mother asked not too long ago. "I saw him the other day. He's cut his hair and he is a marine biologist now. You liked him, didn't you?"

"Ben has a girlfriend, Mama. I'm not going to leave Steve for him."

"When is Steve going to get a job?"

"Steve has a job."

Mama had sniffed disdainfully. "Making surfboards is not a real job. It's a hobby."

Kono sticks out her tongue at her reflection in the mirror, annoyed with herself for having an imaginary argument in her head with her mother, yet again, even if it's only the memory of one this time. She opens the door to her bedroom to find Steve waiting right there outside, practically bouncing on his toes. She smiles, a little bemused.

"You look excited."

He reaches out, takes her by the hand. "Come on," he pulls her into the tiny shared living room and flicks on the TV. "I want you to watch something. It should be on in a few minutes," he says, turning to frown at the clock mounted on the wall. Steve doesn't wear a watch, because they only end up breaking whenever he time travels.

"Steve, what are you―are you sure you should be watching this?" she asks.

Television is one of his triggers, something about the flickering images setting off whatever it is in his brain or his body that makes him travel. Sometimes she wonders if time travel isn't weirdly related to epilepsy in some way, because it seems to have all of the same triggers: flashing lights, stress, a blow to the head. Of course, there's no way to be sure, not without bringing him to a doctor, and he's refused to seek any kind of professional help for all the years she's known him, because the one time he did try to ask for help the medical community tried to treat him for paranoid schizophrenia instead.

He shakes his head. "I'll take the risk, just this once. It's important, and I need you to watch. I just won't look directly at the screen. Look, Kono."

Steve is giddy like a kid being allowed to stay up until midnight on New Year's Eve. She stares at the TV screen, feels her face scrunch up in confusion when all that comes on is the state lotto draw, an attractive girl reading off the numbers as they come up.

"Steve, what―?" she starts, stops as she sees him holding out a piece of paper, offering it to her. "Oh, my God. You didn't."

He nods. "I did."

The girl on the television reads out the fourth number, but Kono doesn't need to listen anymore to know that they're all going to match. "Steve, you... I... we can't. I mean, this is cheating!"

He shrugs. "Says who? There's no rule against time travel, is there?"

"No, but... Why on Earth would you do this?"

Steve seems honestly perplexed by her reaction, by the fact that she's not thrilled beyond words. "I wanted us to have a place. I'm never going to make much money, and you're just starting out, we can't live on your salary. Besides, your parents already think I'm a wastrel."

"Unless you're a surgeon, my parents will always think you're a wastrel," she says automatically. Steve's expression is quickly going from perplexed to outright hurt. He always looks a little like a puppy that's been kicked around and doesn't quite understand why the universe is being cruel, and sometimes it makes her want to shake him. The rest of the time it makes her want to wrap him around in a blanket so the world can't get to him anymore, and she hates that, this time, she's the one that put that look on his face.

"I thought it was kind of a neat trick, but..." he shrugs again. "It doesn't matter. We could win every week for the next year, Kono, and it wouldn't matter. You can cash the winnings and give them to the homeless, if you want. I just... I guess we can wait, find another way to get us an apartment."

She stares at him, utterly overwhelmed. It never occurred to her before that of course Steve can do this. He could have won the lottery every week of his life and just never bothered to do it because he never needed to before. If it was just him, there'd be no need―he did it all for her. He did it so that she wouldn't have to put up with her stupid roommate or be forced to go and stay with him in his tent by the beach, because he believes with every fibre of his being that she deserves better, deserves more, and she doesn't know if she should laugh or cry at the terrible sincerity of it all. Especially since she'd happily live in a tent with him for the rest of their lives.

He pulls the paper back, holds it up between both hands, poised to tear it. "It doesn't matter," he repeats. "Say the word, and it's toast. No one wins this week, and that's that."

She snatches at it, suddenly laughing. "Okay, okay, I take it back! You win, I am weak, oh my God, Steve!" She plucks the ticket from his hands and he grins back, grabs her around the waist and swings her around, threatening the sanctity of all the breakables in the apartment. She shrieks a little. "Put me down!"

Ever obedient, he sets her down, just as Jennifer comes out of her room demanding to know what the fuss is about. Kono turns to grin at her from ear to ear.

"I'm moving out."

~*~

 _December 20th, 2006: Steve is 30, Kono is 22_

Steve is well into his fourth drink by the time Kono comes home from work, laden down with bags full of Christmas decorations. He's already told her in no uncertain terms that he wants nothing to do with the celebrations. He'll help her decorate if she wants, he'll let her drag him to her family's Christmas party, but there is nothing about Christmas that he will ever like.

She drops her bags on the floor and eyes the rapidly dwindling bottle of Ocean Vodka next to him on the floor. He's sitting cross-legged with his back to the wall, still making an attempt at respectability by using a glass, but he's about one or maybe two drinks away from just tilting the bottle directly into his mouth.

"Do you really think you should be drinking this much?"

"Yup."

"You're already drunk."

"Yup."

She sighs. "You said you'd help me with the decorations. Come on, Steve. Christmas comes once a year, it won't kill you to at least pretend to enjoy it, for my sake. I don't get people who hate Christmas," she adds a little petulantly. "I mean, just because it's a little cheesy that makes it terrible? What's wrong with wanting people to be happy and enjoy being with their families?"

Steve pours himself another drink, tosses back the shot of vodka like he's swallowing a mouthful of water after brushing his teeth. "Nothing wrong with that."

"So enlighten me," she challenges. And, okay, maybe he owes her that much, at least. "Steve, stop," she says, trying to slip her hand between him and the bottle."

"Did I ever tell you about my mother?" he asks, and she shakes her head, comes to sit next to him on the floor. She's always avid for trivia about his life. Loves hearing about his coloured past. "Well, once upon a time, I had a mother. Both parents, and a baby sister, and we all lived very happily together in a big house right on a private beach."

She smiles. "Sounds nice. Your sister's name is Mary, right? The one who lives in L.A.?"

"That's the one." Steve takes another drink, and wonders if he's too drunk or too sober to be telling her any of this. "So on the morning of Christmas Eve, when I was eleven years old, my mother took me in the car to go fetch Mary who was playing at a friend's house. It was a Mercury Marquis, a '74."

"What's that?"

"Built like a tank. Look it up at some point, when you're at a computer. Anyway, my parents loved that car. They drove it when they got married. It had a lot of history for them. I never had much appreciation for them, but whatever. I wasn't feeling good, I was in a bad mood, and my mother was singing that Christmas song about 'All I Want For Christmas is My Two Front Teeth,' you know it?"

"Not by heart, but yeah."

"So I was half-lying down in the back, and my head hurt, and I whined at her about singing that stupid song because it made my head hurt. And then there was this weird clicking noise, and the next thing I knew I was watching the car―and my mother inside―go up in a ball of flames."

Kono's eyes are wide. She puts a hand on his knee―it's warm and soft and comes closer to making him lose what little composure he last left than anything he's been doing to himself today. "You time traveled?"

"I time-traveled," he confirms. "I hadn't done it much by then, and... I don't know, all I knew was that I was watching my car, and I could see my mother, just the back of her head, and it veered off the road and just exploded."

"How... why do you think it happened?"

"Stress―pure fear. I think my body did the only trick it could."

Kono keeps looking at his face, her hand tightening its grip on his knee. "So..."

"So. Mom died, and I didn't. I was gone from the scene for precisely eight minutes and twenty-three seconds, but I was also there the whole time. Nobody saw me go or come back. I have no idea where I went, no idea how long I stayed there. It might have been only a couple of seconds, for all I know. I was on the shoulder of the road, naked and in shock, and half of my life was on fire in our family car."

The bottle of vodka is reaching the halfway mark. There's no sign at all that he's going to go anywhere, travel to a happier, safer time than now. It's just him and the vodka and Kono's hand, warm on his thigh.

"Traffic came to a halt. There were cars everywhere, people getting out of their vehicles and yelling. It took ambulances forever to get to us, because of all the cars left in the middle of the street. It was too late, anyway, she was dead the minute the car exploded. One of the paramedics threw up. The cops who got there first were friends of my dad's, and it hit them as hard as it did me, in some ways. We used to have barbecues with them."

"But..." Kono is frowning, and Steve thinks he knows why. "You said you were gone―that you don't remember. How can you know the exact time you were missing for? How do you know all these things?"

He hesitates for a long time, trying to figure out how to explain it. "You know how there are moments in our lives that―that are so big, they define everything else? How you always look back at that handful of times in your life, you dream about those moments, those events, revisit them again and again in your mind?"

She nods. "Yeah."

"My mom's death... it was pivotal. It was the moment everything changed, and I was there. I dream about it, and I time travel to it, all the time. If you were able to go back and, say, film it, from all the angles, you'll see me. I'm there on the road, I'm the one who finds a payphone and makes the first call to report the accident. I'm lurking right behind the ambulance as the paramedic tries to ask eleven-year-old me what happened. I'm listening in while the cops try to get my father on the radio."

"Oh my God," Kono says quietly, and Steve pushes on, because if he stops now he'll never start again, and he owes her the end of this story, at least.

"I'm there in the aftermath, too. I'm sitting in the hospital waiting room while my father paces outside the pediatrics ward, and I want to maybe say something, tell him that it's going to be okay, but I know it's not. He looks grey, like all the blood's been drained from his body. I'm the one who borrows a blanket from someone in a nearby car and wraps it around my own shoulders because I'm naked and shivering on the side of the road. I'm the one who looked into that eleven-year-old's eyes and told what to say. I told him he'd―he'd be fine," Steve's voice breaks, "I told him he'd be fine because that's―that's what he needed to hear even though it was a lie. I looked into his face and lied and all the time I was―I was thinking..." Tears are pouring down his face now, and no matter how he scrubs at his eyes with the back of his wrist, they won't stop. Kono slides over on the floor and pulls him into her arms, lets him sob against her thin cotton shirt.

"What?" she whispers. "Tell me."

"I was thinking _I should have died too_." 

Kono holds him until he stops crying, although it takes a long time, and her shirt is a mess and her legs must be cramping up long before he's done. She kisses his temple. "For what it's worth, I am so glad you're here. I am glad you're here and that you're alive and spending Christmas with me. And I'm sorry if I hurt you, because I didn't know, okay? We don't have to do anything, or go anywhere, or see anyone. It can be just you and me, if that's what you need."

He shakes his head, and she gets up to fetch him a glass of water from the sink. He drains it when she hands it to him. "No, I want to. I don't want to ruin your Christmas. I just... it's just hard."

She kisses his lips, then, carefully. "I know that, now. But if you'll let me, we can try to make it less hard for you."

Kono tastes of the ocean and of hyacinths on his lips. "I'd like that."

~*~

 _May 17th, 2007: Steve is 30, Kono is 23_

"Do you travel to the future, sometimes?" Kono asks him one day.

He's half-asleep, worn out from running the whole night to get away from the cops after an overzealous octogenarian called 911 after seeing a naked man in her back yard. She's probably dead now, Steve thinks, and he wonders if he should feel something―sadness, satisfaction, anything at all. He's been gone a week in the present, although it was less than twenty-four hours for him. He doesn't know if he's aged a week or a day. Kono strokes his hair, tries to tuck the too-short ends behind his ear.

"Sometimes."

"What do you do when you see what's going to happen?"

He rolls over to curl up against her thigh. She's warm and he's freezing, because he never did find any real clothes. He thinks he might be getting sick, which is going to suck. "I never stay long, when it's the future. Barely have time to see anything, and I'm usually running like hell."

"Have you ever seen yourself?" Her voice is quiet, and it's her tone that gives him pause.

"No, not in the future. Why?" He cranes his neck to look up at her.

She shrugs, hair falling in her face. "It's just, you've been coming to see me all my life, and you and I have known each other for a few months, but... I've never seen you any older than 34."

~*~


	4. Murder Most Foul

_August 2nd, 2010: Steve is 3_

When Steve's father dies, he's only a few miles away. He may as well be halfway around the world.

Steve's phone rings at precisely 6:43. He's already awake, listening to Kono take a shower in the tiny cubicle that they jokingly refer to as a master bathroom, the morning sun filtering in through the bare window that hasn't seen a drop of Windex or even a rag in a very long time. He reaches for the phone where it's buzzing loudly on the night table, feels his face pulling into a frown when he sees his father's name and number come up on the call display. As far as he knows, Dad hasn't touched a drink in well over ten years, but that doesn't mean he hasn't fallen off the wagon. Steve braces himself, tells himself not to be disappointed if Dad is drunk on the other end of the line.

"Dad."

"Hey, Champ," his father's voice is strained, but it's clear that, whatever the problem is, it's not alcohol. He's never called Steve 'Champ' in his life. Dad's never been one for useless terms of endearment. 

Steve sits up, bedclothes spilling onto the floor. "You all right?"

"Steve, I don't have much time, I need you to listen to me."

There's a clamour of voices, scuffling sounds as though someone is trying to take the phone away. Another voice comes on the line, one Steve has never heard before. "Now I see where you get it from."

"Who is this?" Steve barks. Kono comes out of the bathroom, hair dripping onto her shoulders, wrapped in one of their ratty, dingy bath towels. She mouths something at him, but he's too busy straining to hear what this strange voice is telling him. "What do you want with my father?"

He reaches for the dog-eared pad of notepaper they keep by the phone, scribbles frantically on it, not knowing if Kono will even be able to read his handwriting, because his hands are shaking too hard to hold his pen steady. _Send HPD to my father's house, ASAP._

"My name is Victor Hesse. You don't know me, but I have a feeling that in a different life, we might have been very good enemies," the man sneers. "Now listen to me very carefully, Steve. That is your name, isn't it? I'm offering you a trade: your father's life, for the information he hid away with you. All the evidence he's gathered, without holding back a single thing. All things considered, I'd say it's more than generous, wouldn't you? What's more important, a few pieces of paper, or a man's life?"

"I don't know what you're talking about."

The man named Victor Hesse clucks his tongue. "Steve, Steve, Steve. There is no use lying to me. I happen to know that what I'm looking for isn't here, and your father isn't one to trust just anyone with this sort of thing. I tell you what, it's possible you don't know you have it. He may have given you something―a box, a vase, I don't know, whatever it is loving-but-absent fathers give their sons to show them they still love them. I want you to bring it to me. We're here at your father's house. Bring it now, and I promise not to shoot him like a dog."

In the background Steve hears his father's voice, begging for the phone. Over his shoulder, pressed up against the far wall, Kono is talking urgently into her own cell phone, giving out the location and what few details she has in her possession. She doesn't even know that some crazy person has a gun stuck to John McGarrett's head.

"Look, Victor," he tries to sound reasonable even as his blood roars in his ears. "I don't have what you want. You should know this, you sound like a smart guy. Let my dad go, and we'll talk. I won't negotiate like this."

"Oh, are we _negotiating_?" Victor sneers. He has an accent, it sounds Irish or maybe Welsh, it's difficult to say over the line, and it doesn't match up with the Germanic-sounding last name, and all these tiny details slide to the back of Steve's mind as he tries desperately to figure out just how the hell he's going to get any of them out of this mess.

"Steve." It's his dad, phone pressed back to his ear. "Listen to me, Champ," he says ('Champ,' again). "I'm sorry, all right? You tell Mare―tell Mary I'm sorry, and that I love you both. I never told you enough. Whatever these people want, Champ, whatever they want, don't you give it to them, you hear?"

"Dad!" Steve jumps to his feet, both hands clamped over the phone as though he might just be able to anchor his father here in the world of the living if he just hangs on hard enough. "Dad!"

There are more scuffling sounds, the loud report of a gunshot far away from the phone, a man's voice cursing loudly. Victor Hesse is the one who picks up the line.

"You both want to play the hero, is that it, Steve?" he pants. "So be it. That was the last time you'll ever hear your father's voice."

There's another gunshot, and this time it's so close that it very nearly deafens him.

"No!"

But it's too late. His father is dead.

~*~

 _August 2nd, 2010: Steve is 34 and 33_

Detective Danny Williams hates everything about Hawaii. He hates the fact that it's not New Jersey, he hates the fact that there's no snow in winter, and he hates pineapples in general. Mostly he hates the fact that he was all but forced to move here by his venom-spewing British cobra of an ex-wife, who re-married a guy with practically more money than Bill Gates and then proceeded to move Danny's baby girl fifteen thousand miles away from her real home in Newark. So, Hawaii? Definitely in Danny's black books for the foreseeable future.

He also hates most of the Honolulu Police Department, because apparently their motto is "Be as unprofessional as possible." Not a single tie to be found among the detectives, for one thing, and if that wasn't bad enough now they're all after him to not wear his own tie which, just no, thank you very much. The only person he doesn't hate right now is his new partner, Officer Kalakaua, but that's because she's already turning out to be pretty promising as a police officer, just so long as she doesn't pick up on any of their colleagues' bad habits along the way. Danny plans on making sure that never happens, not while she's partnered up with him, anyway. 

Right now, though, he has bigger fish to fry. Like solving the McGarrett murder before he dies of old age. It was a brutal, execution-style murder, and there is nothing about this case that Danny likes, except maybe for the fact that it's going to take all his skills to solve. It's already a messy case, made messy not in the least because the victim is the father of Kono's current boyfriend. At least the boyfriend isn't on the suspect list, because Kono was with him not only when the murder took place, but can vouch that he was on the phone with his father when he was shot. Traumatising as hell, no doubt, but since the phone logs confirm all of it, it does mean that he's off the suspect list, which means that as long as Danny takes the lead on this case, there's very little chance of a conflict of interest. As far as he knows, father and son were estranged anyway, and Kono only ever met Lieutenant McGarrett a few times, strictly professionally.

Danny does like a good challenge, he's the first to admit that, but this case is promising to be more than that. And he hates the idea that whatever animal put a bullet in the back of a good cop's head right in his own home might well get away with it, the longer this investigation takes. That's why he's back here, less than two days after the call was put in.

He's already been over the scene, and the crime scene guys have gone over it with a fine-toothed comb as well, but he can't help but think that there's something here that he's missing, something he can't quite put his finger on. So he calls in his position to dispatch, gets out of the car, and lets himself into the house, heading right back for the dead cop's office, intending to sift through what little paperwork Jack McGarrett might have kept at home. There's nothing to suggest that any of that paperwork might lead to his killers, but then Jack McGarrett was an exemplary cop, one that everyone agreed was the best of the best, and it's hard to argue with that sort of consensus. So it stands to reason that he probably brought some of his work home with him, maybe some of the trickier cases, or maybe a couple of the ones who got away. Danny's never done it himself, but he knows a couple of guys back in Jersey who used to keep the names of the guys they couldn't convict written in a notebook or in a file somewhere at home.

He's in the process of pulling open the first drawer in the filing cabinet when he hears the sound of rustling coming from the garage. He freezes for a moment, then pulls his service weapon from its holster, strides purposefully to the inner door and pulls it open.

"HPD, freeze!" he bellows.

There's a figure in the far corner, half-concealed by the covered car in the middle of the garage, but the guy obediently raises both hands above his head. He's tall, Danny sees, coming around the car, his pistol trained on centre mass, a good inch or two over six feet. Blue eyes, dark brown or maybe even black hair, dressed in cargo pants that are a bit too big for him and a polo shirt that's a little too tight across the chest. The man turns slowly to face him, grins when he catches sight of Danny.

" _Howzit_ , Danno?"

For a second Danny's nonplussed. "Do I know you, scumbag?"

The man shakes his head. "Not yet."

Danny jerks his head at the guy. "Okay, wise guy. Lace your fingers, put them behind your head. This is an active crime scene, and you are interfering with an official police investigation. You're going to come with me down to the precinct and answer some questions. Not least of which will be, 'What the hell are you doing here?' You got me?"

"Yeah, I don't think we'll be doing that," the man starts to put his hands down very slowly.

"Hey! Hands where I can see 'em, buddy!"

"The name's Steve, and this is my house. I have every right to be here."

The name rings a bell. "You're John McGarrett's son?"

"That's right," Steve nods. "So you can put your gun down."

"Not a chance. This might be your house, but it's my crime scene first, and I will thank you not to tamper with the evidence contained therein."

"Therein?" Steve repeats incredulously. "Whatever, I'm not tampering, I live here. I haven't touched anything."

"Bull. Shit," Danny spits, gesturing to the work bench next to Steve. "I can see the dust void where you've picked something up in order to move it. What did you take?"

Steve sighs. "I didn't take anything, Danno. I just moved it so I could look inside. It's going to be important for your case later on, but I needed to come back and see it."

Danny glances down at Steve's feet, blinks a little when he notices they're bare, but then it sort of makes sense in a twisted way that this guy would remove his shoes in his own house. Next to him on the ground there's a red tool box, covered in dust which has been recently disturbed by a fresh set of prints―doubtless Steve's. 

"Don't call me 'Danno,'" he says instead. "I don't know where you heard that, but it's not a nickname anyone except my daughter gets to use."

He's beginning to think this guy isn't all there, anyway. How many people in their right minds just stand there and chat about popping into their dead father's garage while a cop has his gun pointed at their midsection.

"Come on," he says again. "Hands behind your head, and let's go. You don't do as I say, then that's resisting arrest that we're going to add to the very long list of charges that I plan to bring against you. For all I know, you're my number one suspect."

The statement appears to shock Steve a little bit, and to Danny's surprise his expression turns hurt. "I'm not the one who did this," he says softly. "I'm here to help you find out who did. The clues are in the box."

"You're a lunatic," Danny breathes. "That's the only logical explanation. I am pointing a gun at you and telling you, as an officer of the law, to comply with my orders, and yet you're standing there talking about clues like this is the freaking Hardy Boys!"

"It's okay. I'm not coming with you now, but we'll talk again in a few days. Don't be worried if I don't remember you," Steve says, like he's discussing the weather. "It's perfectly normal."

And with that he suddenly lunges to the side, hits the floor on the other side of the car. Danny loses sight of him, he could have sworn just for a couple of seconds, but by the time he gets there, there is no sign of the intruder whatsoever. All that's left of him are his cargo pants and his polo shirt, left in a crumpled heap on the floor just under the car. Danny crouches down in order to pick up the shirt with two fingers, and sighs.

"I cannot wait to explain this one to the Lieutenant."

~*~

 _August 5th, 2010: Steve is 33_

"Witness is all yours," Meka comes by Danny's desk where he's been trying to compile his notes together. Danny glances up, gives him a smile.

"Detective Hanamoa. Long time no see. How's organised crime treating you?"

Meka grins. "Better now that I don't have a tiny, short-tempered _haole_ cramping my style."

"Professional," Danny corrects him pointedly, but there's no heat in the words, just as there was no venom in Meka's use of the word _'haole'_ , the way it does on the lips of so many other HPD officer. "What are you doing with my witness, anyway?"

"McGarrett was working in organised crime, in case you forgot," Meka shrugs. "Just making sure we're not leaving out any loose ends. He was one of ours, you know. The best."

Danny nods. One thing doesn't change, no matter where you're from, if you're a cop: you protect your own. "We'll get the son of a bitch, don't think for a second we won't. What do you make of the son?"

"I'll let you see for yourself, but he's not a suspect. If anything, he's been helpful, for a guy with no police training or any kind of background in law enforcement. The closest he's come to that is the _kapu_."

Danny blinks a little. " _Kapu_ as in the local eco-vigilantes?"

Meka narrows his eyes. "Tread carefully with words like those, Danny. The Kapu, they're a force to be reckoned with on the island, and they're respected. They're not thugs and they're not vigilantes."

"So, what, they're more like a neighbourhood watch? Do they have safety orange vests?" Danny tugs at the shoulders of his shirt for emphasis, and Meka rolls his eyes, unable to entirely suppress a laugh.

"One of these days some islander is going to kick your pasty white ass for you, and you will have deserved every single kick, my friend. You go in there and antagonise a respected member of the _kapu_ , even if he is junior, and you're going to attract a whole heap of extra problems on your head."

"Duly noted," Danny nods curtly, but the message has been received, loud and clear, and he's not an idiot, no matter what the local cops might think of him.

He gathers his notes into a manila file folder, tucks it under his arm, heads into the interview room and stops on the other side of the one-way mirror to watch how his witness is behaving. Sometimes leaving someone to their own devices and letting them stew in their own juices is worth hours of painstaking interrogation. Not knowing is the worst kind of torture, for some people. He stops short when he first sees the guy, realising that he has met him before―this is the guy he caught in John McGarrett's garage, or almost caught, anyway. At least Danny knows he was telling the truth, now, which means he's going to have a lot of answering to do in just a few minutes.

Danny opens the door, saunters into the room, drops the folder onto the table between them, then casually spins his chair around so he can straddle it. "Steven J. McGarrett. I'd say it's a pleasure to meet you again, but..."

He gets a blank look in return. "Sorry, what?"

"So you're going to play the no memory card? Is that it? You interfere with my investigation, possibly tamper with evidence for all I know, and after pulling a truly impressive vanishing act―I totally have to hand that one to you―now you're pretending not to know anything about it?"

"Oh." The guy's a good actor, Danny will give him that. "No. I mean, yes. I mean, I get that we've met before, I just, I don't remember. It's a―a condition. A memory kind of thing. It's not personal, I swear, and I'm not doing it on purpose. I can't explain it better than that."

"A condition," Danny says flatly, and that gets him a fervent nod. Well, okay. Time will tell. "All right, then. We're going to go through your whole statement, and then we're going to talk about why you broke into your father's house two days ago―"

"I didn't!"

"You did. I don't care if he left it to you in his will, you cannot enter an active crime scene until the lead detective―that's me―gives you the green light. And I most certainly did nothing of the kind."

McGarrett shakes his head. "I don't remember doing that. I―did I tell you about the tool box?"

"Not as such, no, but you did hint that it might be important." 

"Okay. You got my statement, right? About the phone call?"

Danny is under the very uncomfortable impression that he's not entirely in charge of this interrogation. "I read it over, yeah. You want to walk me through it one more time there, champ?"

"That's exactly it," Steve leans forward, hands on the table. "That was what's on the box. My dad never called me 'champ,' not once in my entire life. He wasn't―he didn't use pet names. He'd call me Steve, or maybe son sometimes, but never 'champ.' He was trying to draw my attention to the box, because that's where he hid the clues of his investigation."

"What investigation? I've gone through all his files, and there's no mention of anything like that."

Steve gives him a slightly pained look. "Can I talk off the record for a minute?"

"No."

"Please?" The tone is desperate, now, and it doesn't jive with what Danny knows of this guy. He's nothing like the self-possessed man he met a couple of days before. "If I have to, I'll repeat it on the record, but I think once you hear it, you won't want to. Come on, what will it hurt?"

"Are you schizophrenic or something?"

Steve shakes his head. "No. People thought that at one point, but I'm not. Totally cleared by several psychiatrists," he adds with a rueful smile.

"I am going to regret this for the rest of my life," Danny mutters, then reaches over and switches off the tape. "Okay, shoot. What have you got?"

Steve drums his fingers on the tabletop for a moment. "My dad was looking into my mother's death. Our car blew up when I was a kid, and she―uh, she died. They thought something went wrong with, God, I don't remember what. But there were things that never added up, and he started to figure it out. He was investigating the expansion of the Yakuza in Hawaii, and it sounded to me like he was meant to be in the car when it blew up."

Danny's heart has speeded up in his chest in the way it does only when he knows he's onto something big. He remembers the day he and the other detectives cracked their big RICO case back in '03, having the exact same feeling of blood rushing through his veins and roaring in his ears. 

"I read that report, there was no evidence of foul play. The brakes failed, coupled with some sort of technical gibberish about fuel injection gone wrong."

Steve gives him a flat look, and even Danny has to admit that it doesn't really add up. The car was a charred ruin, and unlike in the movies cars don't actually explode on impact unless they're encouraged to do so by outside intervention.

"You're saying there was a bomb."

"I'm saying there was a bomb. They wanted my father off the case and―and they killed my mother instead."

Danny blows out his cheeks in a slow exhale. "Okay. We'll look into it." He reaches over, flicks the switch on the recording again. "Now, let's go back over your statement, shall we?"

~*~

 _August 6th, 2010: Steve is 33, Kono is 26_

"Where were you?" Kono asks, trying hard to focus on her question even though Steve has her crowded up against the wall of their tiny hallway, one hand sliding past the elastic waistband of her panties.

She's supposed to be getting ready for work, but he's been gone for hours, since he got home from the police station where she knows he talked for hours with her partner about the case. She should recuse herself, she knows, but Danny's not pushing it as long as there's no direct conflict of interest, and Steve isn't a suspect, just a witness. He's kissing her now like his life depends on it, free hand roaming along her waist, up over the silk of her bra and lingering there as her nipple hardens under his touch.

"Went back to the car accident," he says shortly, and leaves it there, and she knows better than to push it. Instead she rubs up against him, tilts her head so he'll kiss her, and then curses loudly when the doorbell rings.

Steve huffs impatiently. "Think we can ignore it?" he asks.

Danny's voice comes through the door, accompanied by pounding. "Hey, Kalakaua! We are burning daylight, here! You decent? You have thirty seconds before I come in anyway!"

She rolls her eyes, gives Steve a shove. "You're wearing pants, go open the door. Danny's a nice guy, but I'm not giving him a show."

She's pulling on her pants, shirt half-buttoned, by the time Danny is sauntering into their apartment, tie firmly knotted, shoes newly-shined. "Nice place. Nicer than mine, anyway. Why is everything in Hawaii tiny?" he asks, as though he's not expecting an answer.

"Your place is a shithole, that's why," she tells him amiably, buttoning her shirt. It's her favourite purple one with darts and three-quarter sleeves, the one that makes Steve's eyes spark whenever he looks at her. "And we're trying to live off my income and the interest from our capital. Around here, that doesn't amount to much."

Danny perches on a chair in the kitchenette. "A couple more days and the house will be free and clear. You sure you want to move in there, though?"

She glances at Steve, but he doesn't look like he's insulted by the implication that it's strange that he would want to live in the house where his father was murdered. Kono gets it―she understands about family, about _ohana_ , about how that house is where so many of Steve's good memories are, like the inlet is where so many of her good memories are, of her and him together. Steve's got his back turned, fussing with the coffee pot, and when he turns around again he's got three cups filled.

"You, my friend, are a prince among men," Danny accepts a cup, lifts it in appreciation. "I cannot tell you just how happy I am that I don't actually have to investigate you any further as a murder suspect. You would not believe how messy that sort of thing can be. I'd be morally and legally obligated to report the conflict of interest, and then I'd lose my extremely competent and, dare I say it, talented partner, here."

Steve sips at his coffee. "This isn't a social call, then?"

"Nope. I need to borrow my partner, take her with me right to the Governor's office."

"What's going on, Danny?" Kono ignores her coffee in favour of strapping on her belt and badge, making sure her gun is secure. "It has to be important or you'd have waited until I got into the office."

"Observant as well as badass," Danny points a finger at her like his hand is a gun. "Someone's stealing our evidence right out of lock-up. That tool box?" he looks over at Steve, who's now entirely focused on him. "The one you said contained all the evidence from your father's little unofficial investigation? It's gone. Vanished into thin air, not a trace of it, including the paperwork."

"Oh my God." Kono stares at him, glances at Steve, whose face has drained of colour.

"Right." Danny stands up, jerks his head toward the door. "That's why I need you to come with me. Not you, big guy. You're going to do whatever it is you usually do with your days―you still with the _kapu_?"

Steve shakes his head. "Not for a couple of years now. I still have some connections, if you need them, but they don't have anything to with organised crime."

"Noted. Okay, let's go," Danny all but shoves Kono out of her own front door and ushers her into the passenger seat of his Camaro, barely leaving her the time to give Steve a kiss goodbye. "You are not driving. I know you like to drive my car, you weirdo control freak, but not this time."

"Where are we going?" Kono asks, when it's obvious they're not heading back to HPD.

"You and I, partner, have an appointment with the Governor."

"Governor Jameson?"

Danny twists in his seat to give her an incredulous look. "How many Governors does Hawaii have? Yes, Governor Jameson. She and I had a long chat over a secure line about our mysterious disappearing evidence and what that might mean," he pauses while he pulls the car into a parking spot with a screech of tires, "and that is what has led us here. Come on, time's a-wastin', here. The Governor awaits."

"Slow down, Danny," she balks, half-laughing, half-nervous. "What's going on?"

He allows her to stop them in the doorway, and puts both hands on her shoulders. He's shorter than she is, and it should feel ridiculous, except that her palms are sweaty and it feels anything but.

"Okay. Here's what's happening. There's a conspiracy, Kono, a big one. Right up until yesterday I didn't really believe it. I thought your boyfriend was certifiable, and I was this close," he makes a pinching motion with his thumb and forefinger, "to recommending that you both get help―him for his delusions and you for dating a guy with delusions. Except that then that toolbox went missing, and the more I asked around, the more I got stonewalled. Do you know how I feel about being stonewalled? I think you do. So I got on the phone with the Governor's assistant, because I know when I need to start going over people's heads, and as it turns out, the Governor and John McGarrett go way back, so she wanted to talk to the man investigating his death. As it happens, she agrees with me about this whole thing having a really nasty smell about it, and that, my friend, is why we are here."

"How about the short version?" Kono manages after a few seconds of trying to figure out just what Danny told her.

He throws up his hands in a gesture of exasperated surrender. "The Governor is putting a task force. Organised crime is out of hand on this island, and she wants it gone. She's asked me to head it up, but it's going to be a hard sell, PR-wise, given that I'm new and white and foreign. So I'm dragging you down with me," he grins at her, unrepentant. "You get a raise and something that's not quite a promotion but should feel like one anyway. We get to hand-pick the rest of our team, see this thing through to the end, minus a whole bunch of red tape."

Kono isn't sure she remembers how to breathe. "A task force?"

"I'm glad to see that you have at least captured the essence of what I was saying. Now come on," Danny takes her by the elbow and steers her through the door. "Ready or not, we're about to go get sworn in."

~*~

 _April 7th, 2010: Steve is 11_

Sometimes the only good thing about Hawaii is how much Grace likes it here, is Danny's private opinion. He's trying―with varying levels of success―to keep most of his negative opinions to himself, especially when Grace is nearby. It's not hard when his daughter's around, mind you. Grace is the light of his life, and the way she beams from ear to ear the minute she sees him is enough to banish even the darkest of thoughts that might try to cling to his mind. Right now she's playing what looks like a simple game with complicated rules that involves getting as close to the water as possible when the waves recede and then running back up the beach with a happy shriek in an effort to keep just ahead of the waves, but not running so fast that she's ever more than a few inches from the water. 

Danny turns aside for a minute to arrange the towel he's sitting on, and when he looks up, Grace is gone. He scrambles to his feet, heart leaping into his mouth, already feeling a cold sweat break out on his brow, when he hears her voice from somewhere to his left, chirping happily.

"Danno!"

She's got a little boy in tow with an oversized towel tied around his waist. The boy looks sheepish, the tips of his ears red from a blush rather than a sunburn, but he lets Grace pull him along by the hand over the hot sand and present him to Danny for inspection.

"Danno, Steve lost his bathing suit, but I told him you'd be able to help." 

Danny eyes the boy critically. He doesn't seem like he's trying to pull anything shady with Grace, and, okay, maybe he's overreacting a bit. Eleven-year-old boys aren't quite the raging ball of hormones that they get to be after they hit puberty, after all, and this skinny little kid who's blushing so hard it looks like his head might catch fire doesn't seem to present much of a threat of any kind. Grace is looking up at him expectantly, and he is forcibly reminded that, right now, she still believes that he's omnipotent, that he can fix anything. Danno, father extraordinaire and purveyor of miracles, rescuer of little boys who've lost their swimming trunks.

"Of course, Monkey. Well," he gives Steve another once-over, "it just so happens that I have an extra pair of trunks. They'll be big on you, but they have a drawstring, so if you tie them tight enough, you probably won't lose them."

Grace beams. "Don't worry," she turns to the boy and puts a hand on his shoulder reassuringly, "no one will be able to tell they're not really yours."

"Here you go, Steve," Danny hands over the requested article of clothing. "How about I hold up this towel like this," he stands in front of Steve and uses the towel to provide a makeshift screen so he can change, "and you go ahead and get dressed. You wearing any sunblock? Tsk," he clucks his tongue disapprovingly when Steve shakes his head. "All right, both of you, on the towel, now. Double-time, sit."

"Aw, Danno," Grace whines, but he doesn't let her finish.

"You want to get sunburned? Sunburns hurt, and too much exposure without sunblock leads to cancer. You don't want cancer, it sucks. You have to go through chemo and throw up and lose your hair and―and all sorts of other terrible things," Danny concludes hastily, suddenly irrationally worried that he's jinxed everything by mentioning the 'c' word in front of his daughter.

He tries to cover up his small slip by vigorously slathering Grace's shoulders and back with sunblock while she puts some on her legs, then turns his attention to the boy. Obviously if he's not being supervised well enough to keep hold of his swimsuit, he's not being supervised well enough to have enough sunblock.

"Your parents here with you, Steve?"

The boy shakes his head. "No, sir."

He's polite, at least. "You're a bit young to be by yourself on the beach, don't you think?"

The boy turns his head to look up at him, squinting in the bright sun. "We live really close by. My sister and I come here all the time. I'll probably have to go soon, anyway."

"You have somewhere to be?" Danny asks, amused in spite of himself, and Steve nods.

"My Mom's funeral is today."

Grace's face falls at that, and Danny is willing to bet his own expression is very similar to hers. "I'm real sorry to hear that, sport. You sure you want to be here? You should be home with your sister and your dad. They'll want to be with you, you know."

The boy digs a toe experimentally into the sand and won't meet his eyes. "I don't want to watch when they bury her. Dad says it's not really her, anyway, that she's already gone."

Danny eases himself down to sit on the towel next to him and puts a hand on his shoulder. "Well, that's true, but that's not what this is about." He's notified next-of-kin so many times in his career as a cop, but somehow the part of comforting the bereaved never gets any easier. Then again, the day it's easy is the day he hands in his badge and his gun, is what he tells himself. "Funerals aren't for the dead, they're for the living. You need to say goodbye to your mom, and so do your dad and your sister and everyone else who loved her. This is your chance to do that."

That gets him a nod, but he's really not sure that he's gotten his message across this time. He ruffles the kid's hair, and that's when Gracie steps in and saves them both.

"We could build a sand castle until it's time for you to go home, if you want. I have plenty of buckets, and I have some plastic shapes so we can really make it look like a castle, with battlements and everything!"

Steve looks up at that and smiles a little much to Danny's surprise. "Okay," he says softly.

Danny helps them build the biggest sandcastle he and Grace have ever managed on their own. Steve quickly gets absorbed in the task, carefully filling pail after pail with wet sand―far preferable for building castles according to Grace―and following all of Grace's peremptory instructions with good enough humour that Danny concludes that the sister he mentioned must be younger than him by a few years, at least.

"Danno," Grace sidles over to him later with a calculating look on her face that he's learning to dread, "do you think Steve could maybe come to dinner?"

"Not today, Monkey," he starts to tell her, and she shakes her head.

"I know. Today is important, but I was thinking maybe another time. I think he's lonely."

"You think so, eh?"

She nods. Her hair has been bleached blond by the sun and is clinging to her face in thin, wind-swept tendrils, and there is sand stuck to both arms and legs, there's a red patch on the tip of her nose where her sunblock wore off, and Danny thinks that his little girl has never looked more beautiful than she does now, except for maybe the day she was born.

"Okay, why don't you find out his last name and where he lives, and next time we can invite him?"

She throws her arms around him in a hug so tight it nearly cuts off his air. "Thank you, Danno!"

But when they turn around, Steve is gone. A couple of minutes later Danny finds his swim trunks lying in a crumpled heap next to his towel, but he never does manage to find the little boy again that day, and not for a very long time after that.

~*~

 _December 5th, 2010: Steve is 34_

Steve comes to lying curled up, naked and shivering, next to what he thinks might be a shipping container, his stomach gurgling horribly. He barely has time to push himself up onto his hands and knees before he's throwing up a stomachful of bile that burns his nose and throat and only serves to make him even more wretched. He coughs, dry-heaves, spits in a vain attempt to clear the taste out of his mouth.

He staggers to his feet, gingerly steps around the puddle of vomit, dragging the back of his wrist over his mouth. It's the middle of the day, the sun high in the sky, but cool enough that he thinks it might be winter, still.

A gun goes off in the near distance, and Steve freezes in place. The sound of yelling reaches his ears, and instinctively he shrinks back against the container, trying to shield himself.

"Five-0, freeze!" someone bellows, and he realizes with a start that it's Danny William's voice he's hearing, barking orders with the easy confidence of leadership. "Chin, Kono, go around! He won't get far!"

There's silence for what feels like an eternity, then another voice yells out: "Kono!" just as another gunshot splits the air.

He can't stay here, he'll be discovered. Steve takes off at a run away from the voices, bare feet pounding on the asphalt, only to hear―far too late―the sound of approaching footsteps at a dead run. He rounds a corner, collides headlong with a warm shape running the opposite way. He reels, years of practice allowing him to keep his balance, while the other figure sprawls face-first on the ground. A pistol skitters away across the pavement, and there's a muffled curse from the man at Steve's feet.

The man looks up even as Steve feels his own heart lurch painfully in his chest when he recognizes him. "Hesse!"

Victor Hesse's face drains of colour, eyes going impossibly wide. "No," he breathes. "It can't be. You're dead! I just saw you die!"

Steve's throat is closing up, his stomach twisting itself into a brand-new knot, but he manages to take a step forward and kick the man who murdered his father in the face, as hard as he can manage.

"I'm not dead yet, you son of a bitch!" he snarls, and then the world slips away again.

~*~

 _August 23rd, 2010: Steve is 34_

Just when Danny thought that Hawaii couldn't get any weirder than it already was, Kono's boyfriend turns up in his office unannounced less than a month after their first two quasi-disastrous meetings. Unannounced and, what's more, dressed only in his birthday suit.

"What the ever-loving fuck!"

Steve does have the decency to make an attempt to cover up even as Danny whips his head aside and holds up a file folder to shield his eyes. "Uh, hey, Danny."

"Hey, Danny?" Danny sputters, springing to his feet. "How did you even get here? More importantly, _why are you not wearing any clothes, you psycho_?" he jabs a finger in Steve's general direction. "Okay, wait. Don't. Move."

He always keeps a spare set of clothes in the office, ever since one truly disastrous Hallowe'en shift in '02. Even if his pants won't fit McGarrett, his boxers and shirt will do, so he hands them over to a grateful-looking Steve.

"Thank you."

"You're welcome. My questions still stand. What the ever-loving fuck?"

Steve clears his throat uncomfortably. "Okay, before I get into the really complicated reasons I'm here, I, uh, I need to... I have some of the evidence that was stolen."

"You're insane. You are stark naked in my office, how do you―"

"Danny!" Steve says urgently. "I don't know how long I have. Lend me a pad and a pen, please, now!"

And, God help him, Danny obliges him. Steve spends the next few minutes scribbling down what looks like a series of kid's drawings. When he's done, he pushes the pad over to Danny as if it's the answer to life, the universe and everything, but it means nothing at all to Danny.

"What is that?" 

"It's a cipher," Steve says, as if it's the most obvious thing in the world. "You ever read Sherlock Holmes? It's from one of the stories. My dad was obsessed with them, he used to read them to me and Mary all the time when we were kids. I wrote down the key for you, too."

This has gone on long enough. Danny moves up quietly, carefully, mindful of the fact that this guy used to be a member of the _kapu_ and is therefore probably just as dangerous as he looks, and puts a hand on Steve's arm.

"You realise you're not making any sense, right? Come on, have a seat and let me call someone, okay? I can get Kono in here, if you want, or else I'll drive you to the hospital myself."

Steve drops into the closest chair, eyes closing as though he's exhausted, but he shakes his head. "It's okay, I won't be here much longer, I don't think. Here's the thing, Danny: I travel in time. I don't have the time to explain it to you now, but Kono can fill you in. Or, hey, what day is it?"

"It's Monday."

"What's the date? The year?"

"It's August 23rd, 2010. Steve, did you take something?" That might explain his pallor, the sheen of sweat on his face, the confusion about the time.

Steve grins tiredly and shakes his head again. "I'm at home, right now. Tell you what, why don't you call me and ask for an explanation?"

"You're messing with me."

"Humour me, Danno."

"What did I tell you about calling me that?" Danny snaps in spite of himself, then relents and picks up the phone. "Fine, I will humour you, you lunatic, but only until Kono gets here."

He can see her through the glass window of his office, hurrying toward them once she's spotted Steve in nothing but a pair of borrowed boxers. The phone rings once, twice, until someone picks up, and a man's voice answers.

"Hello?" It's Steve.

For a second Danny is speechless, then he recovers enough to squeak. "Steve?"

"Yes? Who is this?"

"It's Danny Williams. How―is this a joke?"

Steve is smirking at him, arms folded over his chest. The Steve-voice in his ear asks: "What do you mean, Danny?"

"Who is this really, and when I figure out what you and Steve are playing at, I will have you both arrested for obstruction of justice!"

"Oh," the Steve-voice answers. "Am I there, then? Did I tell you about the time-travel yet?"

"This isn't funny," Danny snaps, feeling his blood begin to boil. He's going to rip Steve a new one for starters, and then he's going to strongly suggest Kono get herself some better taste in men. His train of thought never goes any further, though, because the next thing he knows the Steve sitting right in front of him vanishes, melts right into thin air under his nose. "Oh my God."

Kono pokes her head into his office just as the now-empty boxers slither to the floor. She looks sheepish. "Um, I guess maybe now might be a good time to explain this?"

~*~

 _September 15th, 2010: Steve is 34, Kono is 26_

Danny isn't entirely sure he wants to go out to a football game with Kono's crazy time-traveling boyfriend. The guy attracts trouble like shit attracts flies, but Kono adores him, and since Danny likes Kono he found himself agreeing to it. Besides, Chin will be there too, and this is one of those times that can be viewed as a team-building exercise, which is always a good thing. It's his weekend with Grace, and she's fairly wriggling with excitement, wearing a brand-new sundress that her mother got her for the occasion. She's the one who spots the group first and waves frantically, standing on her tiptoes.

"Look, Danno, there they are! Auntie Kono! Auntie Kono, we're over here!" she keeps waving until Danny honestly begins to worry that she's going to dislocate her shoulder.

He lets her run ahead of him a few paces to greet them ('Not too far, honey! Stay where I can see you.') and she throws herself into Kono's arms to give her a hug, only to be lifted clear off the ground with a terrified shriek of delight as Kono spins her around three hundred and sixty degrees, skinny legs flailing. Chin gives her a slightly more careful hug, doubtless mindful that Danny will find new and creative ways of removing his spine if he even accidentally hurts his little girl. By the time Danny catches up to them Grace is standing right in front of Steve, staring up at him with a slightly perplexed look on her face. Steve bends a little and holds out his hand for her to shake.

"Hi, Grace, I'm Steve. I've heard a lot about you."

Grace doesn't move though, and to Danny's surprise her face breaks out into a smile, even though she still looks a little confused. "It's you," she exclaims. "It's you, only you're all grown up. How did you do that?"

Steve blinks, first at her, then shifts his gaze to Danny. "Um."

Grace turns to look at Danny. "Danno, look, it's Steve!"

"Yeah, I know, Monkey. You going to be polite and shake his hand now?"

She huffs impatiently in that way that only eight-year-old girls can manage. "No, Daddy, it's Steve. The boy from the beach!" she insists. "Remember? We built a sandcastle, and you lent him your swim trunks." 

"Gracie, that's impossible. That Steve was a little boy and this..." It's Danny's turn to blink a little. He looks up at Steve, who's blushing, face turning bright red right to his ears, and that's when Danny sees the resemblance. "Huh."

Steve chews nervously on his lips. "Um..." he says again, and that's about all he appears to be able to manage. Kono rubs his arm reassuringly.

Danny glares. "You could have told me!"

Steve rubs the back of his neck. "Hey, it was nearly twenty-five years ago for me, cut me some slack. Besides, other stuff happened that day, you know?"

"Yeah, I remember," Danny nods.

Grace throws herself at Steve and wraps her arms around his waist. "I'm sorry about your Mommy, Uncle Steve."

Steve clears his throat, eyes suddenly bright, and Danny wonders if anyone ever actually said the words to him at all, all those years ago. "Um, thank you, Grace. It was a long time ago."

"Not that long," Grace counters, and Danny decides that's a very good moment to change the subject and distract his daughter with the promise of nachos, because he doesn't really want to explain about the time-travel thing that he doesn't even understand properly himself, to be honest.

Later, though, when the football game is in full swing and Kono is standing on the bleachers and screaming at the top of her lungs, Steve slides over to sit next to him. For a few moments he stares at his hands, clasped in his lap, obviously working up to something.

"I, uh, wanted to, you know, say thank you."

"For what?" Danny's a little startled. Whatever he was expecting Steve to say, it wasn't this.

"I didn't know it was you―on the beach, I mean. Or I would have said it earlier, I swear. It's just―everything from that day got a little blurry after the funeral. All I remember is that I was in my room, trying to fix my tie because my dad told me I had to look right for the funeral, and I couldn't manage it and was on the verge of crying or maybe throwing up, and I thought that maybe I could run away, just for a couple of days until I was sure I wouldn't have to attend the funeral. Then the next thing I knew I was in the water and getting knocked over by a wave, and I was twenty years in the future. You and Grace were the only good thing about that day, and―" he pauses, searching for his words, "what you said to me... it was important, you know? It stuck with me. My dad helped me fix my tie, taught me how to do it properly, and I went to my mother's funeral, and I've never been more grateful to anyone than I've been all my life to that man on the beach who told me I needed to go for me and my family, and not for my mother." He stops, clears his throat a little, his head turned a little away so he won't have to look Danny in the eyes, so Danny chucks him on the shoulder.

"Hey, no sweat. All I saw was a kid who'd lost his mom, you know? And even if I don't know what that's like, I've seen it enough to know about the important stuff. For what it's worth, I'm glad it helped."

Steve glances up at him through his lashes, obviously still embarrassed, but the set of his jaw is determined. "It did."

Danny flashes him a smile, then picks up the basket of nachos next to him. "You're welcome. Now, have some nachos. I know that Kono thinks being skinnier than a toothpick is a healthy way of life, but trust me, my mother raised me better than that. I'm going to put some meat on both your bones if it's the last thing I do."

Steve's face breaks into a grin that's all but blinding, and he obediently grabs a handful of nachos, hot cheese threatening to dribble down his fingers. "Danno, I do believe this is the start of a beautiful friendship."

~*~

 _November 24th, 2010: Kono is 26 Steve is 34_

Steve has gone and come back again. She can tell just by looking at him, even if he wasn't in the process of trying to pull on his clothes again. He's pale and shaky, doesn't bother with more than his pants and a loose t-shirt before he heads right back to his father's old desk, rummaging for paper and a pen before he forgets everything he learned.

"Steve, you can't do this to yourself." It's almost pointless, but she has to try. She's losing him, inch by inch, piece by piece.

He's scribbling down notes as fast as he can manage, what looks like the transcript from the tape recorder that went missing along with his father's toolbox. It won't hold up in a court of law, but he's not letting that stop him.

"I don't have a choice," he says, not looking up.

He's slumped in his chair, propping up his head on his left hand as though it's too heavy to hold up on its own, sweating even though the evening has turned cool. She moves up behind him, slides a hand up to cup his forehead, and isn't surprised to find him burning to the touch.

"You can't keep going like this," she presses a kiss to the top of his head. "I know it's important, but you're going to kill yourself before we can ever see this through. It's late, come to bed."

"Just―just let me finish writing..." he stops, raises his head to look at her, his expression suddenly stricken. "I'm sorry," he murmurs, and he's gone again.

~*~

 _October 28th, 2001: Kono is 17, Steve is 34_

Kono tells herself sometimes that she's not waiting for Steve to come back. She's not some helpless little girl whose entire existence revolves around one man whose comings and goings are predicted only by a little red notebook. She has never missed a meeting, though she has been tempted once or twice to simply not go, just to prove that she's not tethered to that tiny little cove, to the stretch of beach where Steve first taught her how to identify sea shells. She still has her collection, has whittled it down so that it fits in one medium-sized glass jar that sits on her desk in her room. Inside it are the brightest and most perfect of all the shells she ever collected, with the exception of one―the tiger cowrie that she found on their first walk together. She likes to keep the jar turned so that the shell is always in view, and sometimes she runs the tip of her index finger along the jar to mark where it is.

Today is a day like any other, she tells herself, though the bustle of the house belies her thoughts. It's nearly Christmas, and she plans to escape to the relative safety of the beach while her mother goes on a cleaning rampage, commandeering the help of her children and their cousins alike, heedless of any plans that might have previously existed. Christmas is a big deal in the Kalakaua household, and God help anyone who doesn't come when called into service. Kono slips out of the window, unwilling to risk being caught sneaking through the house, climbs out onto the overhanging roof and slides down the tree that grows next to the house. Inside she can hear her mother calling her name, but now that she's outside she's home free, and she finds herself skipping a little as she makes her way to the beach.

Steve is going to be there, she thinks, and that brings a bigger smile to her face, even though she thinks it shouldn't. According to the notebook he's been there for an hour, which means that even if she's off by a few minutes, she's definitely going to see him. She wonders how old he'll be, if he'll be younger or older than the last time he came, if he'll remember all their visits together or only a few, if he'll have that scar on his neck that he got sometime in the later 2000s though he won't tell her exactly when or how.

When she arrives in the inlet, though, Steve is nowhere to be seen. For a moment her heart skips uncomfortably in her chest, and she hurries down to the water's edge, breathes a sigh of relief when she sees a faded set of footprints dragging through the sand and up along the beach to the spot where she always hides the plastic bin in which she puts clothes for him, to keep them safe and dry. She runs back, following the tracks, and finds him sitting propped up against a palm tree, knees drawn up, his head resting on his folded arms. He's pulled on a pair of shorts but nothing else, and he's breathing hard, sweat dripping from his temples.

"Steve?"

His head jerks up at the sound of her voice, and he winces, squinting in the light even as the corners of his mouth curl into a small smile. "Hey."

"Hey yourself. What's wrong? You sick?"

He leans his head back against the tree. "Yeah. Just a fever, it's nothing to worry about."

She drops to a crouch next to him, presses a hand to his forehead the way her mother always does when she or one of her brothers and sisters is sick. It feels a little like pressing her hand against the outside of the oven when her mother's been baking. "You look terrible. You can't stay here, you'll make yourself worse."

"I just have to wait until I go back."

"But you don't know when that will be," she points out reasonably. "What if it's a week, like that one time?"

He shakes his head, and for the first time she wonders if, maybe, he's not in a position to be making decisions for himself for once. Then again, she can't exactly bring him home like this, not without causing a huge fuss. He's too sick to climb up into her room the way she does when she's sneaking in and out, and besides, if they're caught that way it will be a million times worse. A strange man in Kono's room is bound to make her mother hit the ceiling.

Steve has started to shiver, and that she can do something about. She rummages in the box, finds a shirt, and holds it out for him. "You need to at least put on some more layers. When it's dark, maybe we can sneak by my parents, but no way you're getting through the house in daylight, and I don't know where else to take you."

"It's fine," he mumbles. "I'll be fine."

"You sure?" Sometimes he knows, he's already traveled to the future and so he knows he's still there, still fine, but sometimes he's just going on faith. She knows this from countless similar conversations with him. "Did you see it?"

He coughs and shakes his head and shivers again, and she tucks her beach blanket over his shoulders and pulls it closer, pulls on his wrist insistently until he gets the message and grasps the blanket with a sheepish smile. She sits down next to him, and isn't really all that surprised when he lets her pull his head into her lap. It's uncomfortable, a rock poking into her thigh and the tree hard at her back, but Steve settles with a contented sigh as she strokes his hair, even though he must be even more uncomfortable than she is.

"Is this okay?" she asks softly.

"Better than okay," he reassures her, eyes closed, as though even keeping them open pains him.

"Were you sick before, or is this because you traveled?" For all she knows, it could be a symptom just like when he throws up or arrives so hungry he throws himself on whatever food she has handy. He's never had a fever before, though, and the thought that he might be sick enough to die scares her more than she wants to let on.

"Before. Fever made me come, I think," he murmurs. "Worried about my dad."

She keeps stroking his hair. "I heard stress can make you sick, and you said it makes you travel, so I guess it makes sense. How old are you now?"

"Thirty-four."

He's known her for five years, and she's known him for eleven. Give or take. Most times when she bothers to think about it at all, the math makes her head ache. "Were you with your wife?" she asks softly, and he nods against her thigh. "She'll be glad to have you back, I bet."

"Hmm." It sounds like agreement, but it could be anything, and Kono is suddenly horribly, viciously jealous of this woman that she doesn't even know, who gets to share his bed, who gets to talk to him without being constantly told that she's not allowed to know the things he knows. She glares down at the back of his head, but it's like being angry at the tide for going out when she doesn't want it to.

She sighs. "We need to find you some water and some Tylenol or something."

To her surprise he twists a little in her lap to smile up at her. "You always take such good care of me," he murmurs, and then he's gone, leaving her to hold nothing more than a beach blanket half-draped over her lap.

~*~

 _November 27thth, 2010: Kono is 26 Steve is 34_

Steve is so busy trying to remember his father's words in order to transcribe them that he doesn't even hear the front doorbell ring. He's lost track of how long he's been sitting in the same position, one hand pressed to his forehead in a vain attempt to stave off the headache that's been building steadily behind his eyes for what feels like days now.

The first inkling he has that there are people in the house other than himself and Kono is when the sound of light footsteps pattering across the floor of his father's old office catches his attention, and the next thing he knows Grace Williams is flinging her arms around his waist.

"Hi, Uncle Steve!"

For a second he feels a flare of irritation as he loses track of what he was writing, but it's unfair to take it out on a little kid. For the first time he thinks he might feel genuine sympathy for his father when he almost lashed out at Mary when she was the same age. She's too small to understand what's happening, is only happy to see him, so he hugs her back, one-armed.

"Hey, sweetheart," his throat is dry, his voice hoarse even to his own ears, and Grace's expression is worried when she pulls back to look at him.

"You sick, Uncle Steve?"

He feels like death warmed over, but it's no use worrying her. "I'm okay, sweetie. Just lost track of the time."

There's a knock on the door, but Danny's already walking in without so much as being invited, smirking a little. "Uncle Steve is trying to be stoic, but there's no point, because Kono has already ratted you out." He moves Grace aside gently and wraps a hand around Steve's forehead in a gesture that's entirely paternal. "Kono wasn't exaggerating, I see. You're burning up, babe, and you're no good to anyone sick, no matter how much evidence you're bringing back to me. It's good intel, but it won't hold up in a court of law, so you can take a break."

Danny doesn't get it, as always. "I don't control it, Danny."

"Yeah, I know you don't, but what we _can_ control, is whether or not you spend the time you're here resting and getting better. So I brought over supplies," he points to the doorway, where it looks like a grocery store might have vomited on his floor, along with a video store for good measure. "Kono will be joining us later, after she finishes doing whatever mysterious thing she needs to do to keep her mother happy. For now it's you, me and Monkey here. You're going to sit on your sofa and drink tea and ginger ale and soup and watch some parent-approved movies with Grace, and you will do absolutely nothing else, you hear me?"

"But―"

Danny steamrolls right over his protest. "But nothing. Gracie, Monkey, tell Uncle Steve what 'buts' are for."

Grace perks up. "'Butts' are for sitting," she informs him. "That's what Danno says."

He's too tired for this. "Is that what Danno says?"

"Mm-hmm," she nods. "I brought 'Finding Nemo.' It's my favourite movie, and Danno said you'd watch it with me."

"Not today, I can't," he tries again, turning back to his paper. "I have to finish." He can hear the desperate edge in his voice, and apparently so can Danny, because he ushers Grace out of the room with a promise to come find her soon.

"Babe," Danny lays a hand on his shoulder, ignoring the way Steve stiffens a bit under his touch this time. "Come on. Kono's worried and, frankly, I am too now that I'm seeing this up close. She says it's been getting worse, that you're time traveling every two or three days, that you're making yourself sick. You need to stop."

Steve leans forward to cradle his head in his hands, trying to will it to stop throbbing. "I can't. I can't, I don't know how," he says, and his voice cracks, eyes stinging mercilessly. "I keep going back, going around in circles. I want to stay and the more I want to stay the more I get pulled away, and Christ, I'm so tired, Danny."

Danny squeezes his shoulders, massages them with his thumbs a little. "I know you are. I can see it."

"And this," he picks up the pad of paper and drops it again in disgust, "this is the only thing that makes any of it worth it. It's the only thing I'm good for anymore. Something has to come of this, or what the hell am I suffering for?" he demands petulantly 

"Okay," Danny's voice has an air of finality. "That's it. You're taking a break, and I'm forcing you. I will use my gun if I have to," he adds, but he's handing Steve a tissue so he can pull himself together before facing Grace again. 

Danny shoves his hands under both of Steve's arms and bodily lifts him out of his chair once he,s calm. "You're losing weight," he says disapprovingly. "Taking after Kono is a bad idea. Girl's too skinny as it is. Come on, sofa, I'm not giving you a choice, here."

It's just easier to let himself be steered toward his own sofa and covered in a blanket. Grace curls up by his feet, clutching her stuffed rabbit to her chest and sipping at the straw of a juice box. Grape, judging by the colour of the box, Steve thinks muzzily.

"When you're feeling better, we should go back to the beach," Grace says, while Danny sets up the DVD player. "We should build another sand castle. Step-Stan bought me some specially-shaped pails, so we can make turrets and ramparts and things."

Steve makes a sound he hopes sounds like agreement. Right now the idea of going out in the sun is about as appealing as taking a bath in a vat of boiling oil. Grace doesn't seem especially satisfied, though, so he forces himself to sit up a little, even if it makes his head throb.

"Hey, you know who's really good at building sandcastles? Your Aunt Kono. She used to make them all the time when she was younger. She'd let me help, sometimes, but she's got real talent. You should ask her."

Grace isn't as excited by that revelation as he thought she'd be. "Does that mean you don't want to?"

Oh, Steve thinks. "No, that's not it. I just thought it would be fun for you. I'll come when I'm feeling better, okay? Promise."

"Okay."

Grace beams now that she has the answer she was looking for, then settles back in as the movie starts and Danny admonishes her to be quiet and let Steve get some rest. The movie itself is pretty, the colours and the movement of the animated ocean soothing. Before they're ten minutes in Steve can't keep his eyes open any longer and lets himself drift to sleep, lulled by the quiet music and the sound of voices.

He rouses a few times during the afternoon when Danny shakes him gently by the shoulder and feeds him pills and water, and he doesn't bother to question it, just swallows both and goes back to sleep. By the time Kono gets home in the early evening Grace is asleep on the other end of the sofa and Steve is feeling a little more human. She leans over the sofa, brushes her hand through his hair.

"You seem better."

"Hm."

"He was a model patient, surprisingly enough," Danny comments from where he's reclining in Steve's armchair. "Slept the whole time and didn't even argue."

Kono smiles indulgently at him. "So you're only stubborn with me? I don't know if I should be grateful Danny got you to see reason or have my feelings hurt."

Danny gets up, scoops up Grace into his arms. She sags against his shoulder, still half-asleep. "Right. I'll let the two of you sort that out. Kono, I'll see you at the office Monday, first thing. I want to follow up on some of those leads we thought went cold, see if we can't spark something again."

"Got it. See you Monday, Danny." She doesn't bother seeing them to the door, just perches next to him on the sofa, strokes his face again. "Honestly, are you better?"

He nods. "A little. Sorry if I worried you. I just―he's still out there. Hesse. And I need to know we're going to catch him." He wants to add _before it's too late_ , but he doesn't want to see the look that will put on her face, and so he stays silent.

"We will," she assures him, her hand cool against his face, comforting. "I promise, we'll find this guy, and he'll pay for what he did. I promise."

~*~

 _December 4th, 2010: Steve is 34_

Even though he should be used to it by now, every time Steve pops up unannounced (and, needless to say, naked as the day he was born) in his office, Danny very nearly has a heart attack. One of these days, he thinks sourly, waiting for his pulse to return to normal, he _will_ have an infarction, and then Steve will have to perform CPR and it will all get very messy. He's about to point this out to Steve when he sees that the guy looks like he's about to pass out, or at the very least fall over. 

"Whoa, Steve, hey," he's up and out of his chair in a flash, grabbing Steve's arm just as his knees buckle, and easing him into a chair. He's taken to keeping a robe alongside his spare clothes, because for some reason Steve seems to view his office as a pit stop while racking up his frequent flyer time-travel miles, and he grabs it now in order to tuck it over him. "You sick again? I thought you were better."

"I'm fine," Steve manages, but it's not especially convincing, given how badly he's shivering.

"You and I have different definitions of 'fine,' my friend. You okay? You feel like throwing up or anything?"

"Nothing left to throw up," Steve says a little miserably, and damn if that doesn't break Danny's heart a little. "Be fine. Kono's waiting at home."

Kono is actually right here in the office, but Danny figures Steve must be talking about the Kono that belongs in this Steve's present, and the whole quantum mechanics thing gives him a headache anyway. Steve's still talking, he realises with a start.

"What?"

"Tomorrow," Steve repeats, teeth chattering. "I'm violating every law of physics, here, but I don't care, so long as you arrest Victor Hesse. He'll be here tomorrow, and that's when you'll get him."

And then, true to form, he vanishes, leaving Danny alone with a nigh-unusable piece of intel.

~*~

 _December 6th, 2010: Steve is 34, Kono is 26_

Steve wakes up to the sound of Kono crying quietly in the bed next to him. He pushes himself up on one elbow, testing his own boundaries carefully, and is more than a little elated to find that, for the first time in weeks he doesn't feel like death warmed over. The feeling is short-lived, though, because Kono is hastily trying to cuff the tears out of her eyes and giving him a watery smile.

He sits up entirely, slides over to sit behind her, sliding his arms around her. "Hey," he says, pressing a kiss to the side of her neck even though he hasn't shaved yet and is sporting more than a little stubble. She doesn't complain, though. "What's wrong?"

"I think it happened yesterday," she says quietly. "I heard a shot, and none of us fired, so it had to be him when we didn't have eyes on him."

She's talking about Hesse, who's behind bars now. Apparently Steve told them where to find him, but he doesn't know how he finds out yet. All he knows is that two days ago he landed in Danny's office again and told them they'd find Hesse the next day. Danny isn't one to let a lead go by without at least following it to see if if goes anywhere, and that's how all of Five-0 found themselves down by the docks, tipped off partially by Steve's hint but mostly by reports from various criminal informants that a human trafficking operation was centred there, and that the odds were good that Victor Hesse would be using their services to get himself smuggled off the island and away from the long arm of the law.

Five-0 descended on the docks like the wrath of God, and Victor Hesse was caught. Steve remembers the moments right before, has them etched into his memory. At night he dreams of Victor Hesse's face, hears his voice ringing out, high and shrill and terrified, and even though he thinks that it might make him a terrible person, the memory fills him with satisfaction.

Kono is still talking, her voice a soft monotone. "By the time we caught him he was spouting gibberish about a man who couldn't be killed and apologising over and over, like he had all the demons in hell after him. Were you there? Was it you?" her voice cracks.

He tightens his hold on her shoulders. "Don't cry," he tells her, smooths her hair with one hand. "I was there. I kicked him in the face. I think I sprained my toes."

She laughs, a sad huff of air, but her eyes are filled with hope. "Is that when you came back limping a few weeks ago?"

He nods. "Yeah. Man has a hard head."

This time she throws her head back, and her laugh is genuine and full of mirth.

~*~

 _December 31st, 2010: Steve is 34_

"You know, your friends will still love you if everything isn't perfect," Steve feels compelled to remind Kono when he catches her trimming the edges of the front doormat. "Seriously, no one will notice the doormats."

"That's not the point," she straightens up, still on her knees, and brandishes the scissors at him menacingly. "It's the New Year, so the place has to be clean. You start the year the way you mean to go on, after all."

He sighs. He should know better by now, he's been through this with her countless times, both in the present and when her mother was driving her crazy as a little girl with this exact same obsession.

"You're going to shiv me if I mention your mother, right?"

"Don't tempt me," she mutters darkly, and gets up in order to stalk into the kitchen to check on the hors d'oeuvres.

Not for the first time he's tempted to tell her to leave the damned things to burn, to come and spend these last few hours with him, but it's not fair to either of them. No matter which way he looks at it, it's not fair, and selfishly he'd rather watch her bustle around their kitchen and obsess over whether every corner of the house has been dusted, rather than face her tears.

He gives her time to pull the hors d'oeuvres out of the oven, comes up behind her and grabs her by the waist. "Enough," he says in her ear, and that, luckily, sets her giggling. "It can wait. No one will be here for hours."

She turns her head so he can catch her bottom lip in his teeth, just for a moment. "Is that so?"

"It is."

He spins her easily, crowds her against the wall by the window, their mouths finding each other of a common accord. There's no finesse to their movements, but no real hurry either as she pulls down the loose jeans he's been wearing all morning and he undoes the button of her shorts and tugs them off until they've pooled around her ankles. She kicks them aside, lets him lift her bodily off the ground, slides easily onto his dick with the smallest hitch of breath, eyes slamming shut at the sensation. He fucks her slowly against the wall, and she locks her ankles at the small of his back, helping him to bear her weight a little, as if she ever weighed more than a feather to him.

Steve pulls his head back a little, determined to remember every single last second of this, to memorise every outline of her face, her body under his hands. He's concentrating so hard on her that his orgasm takes him almost entirely by surprise, rushing through him and making his whole body tingle like a jolt of electricity going right down to the soles of his feet. Kono follows him over the edge a moment later with a moan, fingers digging into his shoulders, and for a few moments they stay like that, poised as though waiting for something ineffable still to come.

Kono laughs gently, wipes a stray drop of sweat from his face. "Okay, hot stuff. Now we need a shower before the guests get here. You coming with me?"

He grins. "I thought you'd never ask."

~*~

 _December 31st, 2010: Steve is 34_

It doesn't take long after the guests arrive for the party to be in full swing. Kono is in her element, as usual, moving between groups of people, chattering happily, surrounded by her friends and her family. It's the one thing he's never been able to entirely give her―Steve just doesn't have that in him, and it's his one true regret. That, and never truly being able to talk to his father.

Danny is the one to come find him sitting on the beach a little further out from the lanai. "Thought we lost you for a second," he says, handing Steve a Longboard. "But then I figured you'd be out here, being antisocial as usual."

"Yeah," Steve takes the beer, rolls the bottle between his palms. "Listen, Danno, while you're here... I wanted to say, you know, thank you. For everything. I never... shit, I'm not god at this sort of thing," he chokes a little, and Danny claps a hand on his shoulder.

"You already hit the sauce, McGarrett? You're sounding awfully maudlin for this early in the proceedings." His words are joking, but Steve can feel the tension in his voice. _He knows,_ Steve thinks, _he already knows_. "What are you saying, Steve?"

"I'm saying I'm pretty sure this is it."

"When?"

"Soon."

"How soon?"

"I don't know," Steve lies. Very, very soon. "Anyway, I wanted you to know... I know I've been a pain in the ass every now and then..." Danny lets out a chuckle, because isn't that the understatement of the year? "But it's been great. I don't―before Kono, and you and Gracie―I never had much of a family after Mom died, and you gave me that, and I can't ever tell you how much it meant to me." He stops, because if he says one more word he's going to burst into tears, and he doesn't know how to even begin to deal with that.

Danny clears his throat. "Hey, c'mere you goof," he says roughly, and pulls Steve into a quick, fierce hug. Steve half-stifles a sob that threatens to tear him in two, takes a couple of deep breaths to hold himself together. "You want to come inside, or you want me to get Kono?"

He nods against Danny's shoulder. "I think you should hurry."

Steve doesn't notice the time go by before Kono comes flying out of the house, drops to her knees in the sand next to him. "Where were you?" she asks in a small voice.

"I was here. Kono, I―"

"Why didn't you tell me?"

He shrugs helplessly. "It's already happened."

He doesn't look at her, knows she's crying. He doesn't want her to cry.

The world fades away, is replaced almost immediately with the sounds and smells of the docks. He's naked, standing by a shipping container. About two hundred yards away, another, younger version of himself is about to appear next to another shipping container. He can hear the already-familiar sound of gunshots, of shouting in the distance, and he steps out from behind his shelter, almost directly into the path of Victor Hesse as he comes hurtling around the corner. They don't collide this time (Steve is expecting this) but the extra distance gives Hesse more than enough time to bring his weapon to bear―more a reflex than a deliberate motion―and for a second Steve almost imagines he can see the bullet spinning slowly through the air at him, imagines he can see his name carefully etched into the casing. Before he can stop it, Kono's name spills from his lips.

"Oh my God," he hears Hesse say, just before the world melts away again.

He's staring at himself, framed by the morning sky. He looks worried, he thinks, and frightened, and very young. He's trying to be reassuring, and it's cute, in a way. He barely remembers being that naïve. Steve chokes on a mouthful of blood. He wants to tell them it's all right, but it hurts so much more than he ever thought it would, he doesn't know if he's making any sense. Any second now, he tells himself, and he'll be going back to Kono. When he feels the world start to fade again, a smile creeps over his face.

_December 31st, 2010: Steve is 34_

Kono loses track of Steve over the course of the party, in spite of her attempts to keep her eyes on him at all times. Her stomach keeps twisting with anxiety, with the need to keep Steve close, keep him safe, keep him _home_ , above all. She tries, and she still fails, and it's only when Danny comes to get her that she realizes just how how badly she's failed.

She cradles Steve in her lap, uses both hands to keep his head from lolling to the side. He's smiling at her, teeth coated in blood, and he's murmuring over and over, like a mantra: "It's okay, Kono, don't cry. Don't cry. It's okay." And she ignores him and cries anyway.

She can feel people crowding up behind her, hears Chin calling for an ambulance on his cell phone, but it all sounds like the distant crash of waves on the shore. Steve's heels are scrabbling uselessly against the sand, he's choking on his own blood, coughing and gasping now, and there's nothing okay about this, nothing okay about being surrounded by everyone she loves and still be able to do nothing about the fact that Steve is dying in her arms. She bends over as far as she can, kisses his mouth, heedless of the blood frothing at the corners of his lips.

"Why did you let me?" she asks, and he understands that she wants to know why they couldn't have this last moment alone, just the two of them, without all these people around. He's never been good with people.

His mouth works soundlessly for a moment, until he's able to pull in just enough breath to talk. "Didn't want you to be alone. After. Kono... love you."

"Steve!"

He's gone, gone the way he never has been, even when she had no idea where he was or when he'd be back. He's warm in her arms, staring sightlessly past her, up at the low-hanging stars. His hand falls away from the wound in his stomach, pitifully small for what it is, the damage it's wrought. Somewhere down the beach, fireworks go off, whistling high into the night sky. She kisses him again, feels a small, hysterical laugh bubble up in her chest.

"Happy New Year, Steve."

~*~


	5. Epilogue

_October 4th, 2014: Steve is 34, Kono is 30_

"Uncle Steve!"

Grace is running pell-mell toward him, her feet kicking up a spray of sand behind her. She throws herself into his embrace, wraps her arms around his neck.

"You came back!"

He hugs her, hard. "God, you've grown. Look at you, you're a young lady now." 

She is, too. She's grown so tall he barely recognises her. Gone is the little girl obsessed with rabbits, replaced by a self-possessed teenager in a bathing suit that must have given her father a stroke the first time he laid eyes on it.

"Are you staying?" she asks, and her eyes are suddenly bright with tears.

He shakes his head. "No, sweetheart. I'll have to go back soon."

Just over her head he can see Danny hurrying along the beach toward them, blond hair bleached almost white by the sun. He puts a hand on his daughter's shoulder when he reaches them. "Go tell Aunt Kono that Uncle Steve is here, Monkey, would you? Run as fast as you can."

She takes off, and Steve smiles after her. "She's growing up so fast, I can barely believe it. What's the date, Danno?"

"It's 2014. October 4th."

Steve nods. "I see. Is Kono here?"

"Yeah, she's been coming to the beach with us," Danny says, a little hoarsely. He's never been one to hide his emotions, and when he steps forward Steve lets him drag him into a rough hug, and doesn't even tease him for having to rise up a bit on his toes to get his arms properly around Steve's shoulders.

When Danny lets go Steve looks back along the beach, scanning the horizon for Kono. "Is she―how is she?"

"She's holding up. We all are. She misses you."

"I know. Nothing I can do about that, though."

In the distance, he spots Kono running along the beach, hair streaming out behind her where it's come loose from its ponytail. She's wearing the same yellow bikini she's owned for years―or maybe she finally got a new one to replace it, he can't tell from this distance―and she's covering the ground as easily as when he first started running with her to help her train for the Academy. She throws herself into his arms as unselfconsciously as Grace, then locks their lips together in a kiss that has as much hunger and desperation to it as it does love and longing. He kisses her back, tastes salt on both their lips, and for a moment can't tell which of them is crying.

"Why didn't you tell me?" she murmurs against his mouth. "I would have been here."

He pulls back a bit, shakes his head. "I don't want you to spend the rest of your life waiting. You deserve more than that. I want you to be happy."

She buries her face in his shoulder, allows herself a single sob. "You knew. You asshole, you knew all along, and you never said."

Steve strokes her hair. "I know, I'm sorry. But it can't be any other way. You're going to be fine, love. You're going to be fine, I promise."

"Don't go. Stay, please. Please, don't go."

He kisses her again. "I have to, I'm sorry. If I could stay, I would. You know I would."

When he goes, the last thing he hears is the sound of her crying.

~*~

 _December 31st, 2071: Steve is 32, Kono is 87_

She's still living in the same house, after all these years. He was half-afraid she wouldn't be here, that he wouldn't have enough time to look up her name, to track her down, but in the end she was exactly where he knew he would find her. Steve is wearing a ridiculous combination of oversized jeans shorts and a polka-dot t-shirt he found on someone's laundry line, and he rather suspects that the t-shirt was cut for a woman while the jeans are designed for a very overweight man. Beggars can't be choosers, he reminds himself for what feels like the millionth time.

The spare key is still in the same hiding spot under the lanai, but it turns out he needn't have bothered to look for it, because the front door is unlocked, and creaks a little when he pushes it open. The house has changed on the inside. Some of the furniture is the same, the paint on the walls has changed, as have some of the pictures. There are photographs of himself here and there, and Mary and their father, and pictures of Kono through the years, and other people he doesn't recognise. He pauses to look at all the photographs, sees Kono as she grows older in all of them, feels his blood run just a little colder when he realises that his own age doesn't seem to change all that much, that he and Kono were always young when they remembered to turn and smile for the camera.

The scent of pork wafts across the entire house from the kitchen, and he follows the smell of cooking to find Kono with her back to the door, humming under her breath as she stirs something in a pot on the stove. Her hair has gone snow white, and is pulled up into a bun at the nape of her neck, and she's wearing a long dress of faded yellow linen. She's aged, but there is no mistaking her.

She turns as he steps into the kitchen, and her face lights up, the corners of her eyes crinkling, and Steve's heart leaps into his mouth at the sight, because she's here and she's _happy_ , and there is no sight more welcome to him than this.

"It took you long enough," she says teasingly, and she's light as a feather when he pulls her into his arms to kiss her.

"When did I die?"

"A long time ago," she traces the outline of his face, her expression sad but not regretful, he doesn't think. "You never said a word, either. You said you didn't want me to spend my whole life waiting, and so I didn't. You told me I would be fine, and you were right. But I do miss you, in-between visits. I always miss you."

He doesn't know what to say to that, just swallows painfully in an attempt to rid himself of the lump in his throat. She takes pity on him, kisses his forehead before she speaks again.

"Nothing has ever truly been able to keep us apart, you know. Not even time itself."

END


End file.
